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Paperback
240 pages
ISBN-10: 0312355092
ISBN-13: 978-0312355098
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EXCERPT
Chapter One
“Can I please go now?” I’m staring at my mom, willing her to
stop talking and acknowledge me. But she just pushes her long
wavy hair off her face, glances at me briefly, then turns
back to her customer, continuing their discussion on the
benefits of a totally gluten-free diet.
I roll my eyes and tap my foot against the bamboo floor. I’m
sick of gluten haters. Totally over soy lovers. And don’t
even get me started on yoga, people who meditate, or anything
certified organic. Untying my hemp apron with the words new
day organics embroidered in bold green letters along the
front, I wad it into a ball, and glance nervously at the
clock. I’m down to just fifteen minutes until I need to be at
Sloane’s.
“Mom?” I whine, a little louder this time.
And when she finally looks at me, she has this big smile
planted firmly across her face. But I know it’s for the
customer, not me. I mean, I can see her eyes. And believe me,
they tell a whole different story. She gazes at her watch,
and then back at me, and then her makeup-free brown eyes
travel all the way over to the ball of nubby beige cloth
clutched tightly in my hand. And just as her head begins a
kind of slow-mo, downward descent, indicating she’s just
about to perform the much-anticipated “okay” nod, the little
bell on the front door rings, and the spell is broken.
“Go see what they need, and then you can go,” she says,
smiling as she gets back to her customer and the great gluten
debate.
I roll my eyes, shake my head, and don’t even try to contain
the sigh that escapes my lips as I unfold my apron, slip it
back over my head, and get behind the counter, where I’m
confronted with the three most glamorous, most important
members of Ocean High School’s sophomore class.
“Oh, hey,” I say, smiling nervously and glancing in their
general direction, since I’m so not worthy of looking
directly at them. But they don’t say anything. And I mean,
why would they? It’s not like they ever notice me at school.
“Can I get you something?” I ask, watching as they squint
through their identical, shiny black Dior sunglasses at the
smoothie menu hanging on the wall behind me.
“I’ll have the Purple Berry Haze with a shot of soy protein,”
says Jaci, whose shiny blond hair, big blue eyes, golden tan,
petite frame, perfect face, and Marc Jacobs intensive
wardrobe serve as valuable collateral, ensuring her VIP
admission to every cool party and every hot guy.
“Exact same,” say Holly and Claire. Which makes me wonder if
they read the menu, or just waited for Jaci to order, so then
they’d know what they want.
I push up the sleeves of my black New Day Organics T-shirt,
and start tossing generous chunks of raspberries,
blueberries, and strawberries into the blender, trying to
ignore the fact that all three of them are now totally
staring at me.
“Why do you look so familiar?” asks Jaci, learning on the
counter and narrowing her eyes as she looks me over.
I scoop some nonfat, organic, vanilla-flavored yogurt out of
the big plastic tub and add it to the mix. Then I mumble
something about having been in the same history class last
year.
But she just continues to squint, as though she doesn’t quite
believe it. Then suddenly she shakes her head and goes,
“Omigod! You’re that girl that sat in the way back!”
Okay, just so we’re clear, I think we can all agree that
there are two types of kids who make it a point to sit in the
way back.
1. The total stoner-losers who never do their homework and
almost always vanish into alternative-school oblivion before
the semester is even over.
2. The sober-but-shy losers like me who live for extracredit
assignments and whose only friend in the whole school
(okay, world), doesn’t share any of the same classes, so
they’re forced to sit alone.
I gaze at her for a moment, amazed at how she actually
recognized me, and then I glance briefly at Holly and Claire.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “That was me.”
“But something’s different,” Jaci says, leaning in even
closer now, so that she can get a better look. “Have you lost
like, a ton of weight?”
I dump some protein powder on top, reach for the lid, and
shrug. All the while trying not to cringe under her close
scrutiny. Okay, so maybe I used to be a little heavier, maybe
I used to wear a size nine (sometimes seven), and now it’s
more like a five (sometimes three). But it’s only because I
grew an inch and a half and lost a few pounds of baby fat in
the process. I mean, to hear her talk, you’d think I’d just
pulled a Nicole Richie or something.
“Seriously. You guys remember, right?” she says, turning to
consult with her clones, who just continue to stand there,
giving me a blank look. “Well, anyway, you look good.” She
smiles. “Ten more and you’ll look even better!”
I just stand there, frozen. I mean, excuse me? Was that not
the world’s most insulting compliment? “Oh, well, it’s not
like I’m really making an effort,” I finally say, securing
the lid and glancing at her briefly.
“Well, you probably don’t even have to. You know, working
here and all.” She smiles, her eyes traveling over me,
judging every extra inch.
But I just shrug and flip the switch, watching as the berries
swirl into the yogurt, changing color and texture, and
thinking how even though I may like to watch it from an
artistic angle, it’s not like I’d actually ever touch the
stuff.
I prefer an all junk-food diet. See, with no boyfriend (yet),
and a best friend (Sloane), who’s also a geeky goody-good
like me, prepackaged food is about the only form of rebellion
I have—the only way to really freak out my mom. And believe
me, it works. She totally bugs when she sees me eating candy
bars and Pop-Tarts. And sometimes it seems like her sole
purpose in life is to lecture me on how I’m supposedly
“poisoning my body with man-made toxins” and “hampering my
immune system with transfatty acids.” Personally, I think she
could use a little downtime with a Ding Dong and a Dr Pepper.
I mean, isn’t it enough to own an organic café? Does she
really have to buy into all the hype, too?
But try telling her that. This is a woman who named both her
kids after the two most depressing times of the year. That’s
right, my name is Winter Snow Simmons, big sister to Autumn
Rain Simmons. For real. I would never lie about that. And if
you haven’t already guessed by now, my mom’s a hippie. But
not the mud-covered, acid-tripping, Woodstock concertgoing
kind. I mean, Woodstock was like, before she was even born.
She’s more like a modern hippie. You know, the kind who hates
pesticides, loves yoga, and refuses to dye her hair, wear
makeup, or listen to any music that wasn’t originally
recorded on vinyl. Oh, yeah, and she prefers riding an old,
beat-up bicycle to driving a car, which believe me, is even
more embarrassing than it sounds.
And my dad? Well, he’s pretty much the exact opposite. But it
wasn’t always that way. I mean, back when Autumn and I were
kids they used to drag us to Grateful Dead shows, where my
mom would set up shop in the parking lot, selling her secret
recipe organic muffins right out of the back of our old
orange-and-white VW van. We even have some old photos of us
with our faces all painted, while dancing around in oversized
tie-dyed T-shirts.
But then my dad’s garage band scored a Billboard Top Ten hit,
and he really “let the success go to his head.” Or at least
that’s how my mom describes it. I was pretty young, so it’s
not like I can really recall.
Anyway, I guess that’s what eventually drove them apart. My
dad started to enjoy the decade he was living in, while my
mom stayed rooted in one she was too young to remember.
If that sounds like I’m kind of judging her, well, I guess I
am. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a pretty cool,
easygoing mom. But sometimes I wish she’d just highlight her
hair, slap on some makeup, and drive a big, “irresponsible,
gas-hogging SUV” like all the other moms.
And oh, yeah, she named all of the desserts in our bakerycafé
after songs from the sixties and seventies. You know
like “Bad Moon Rising Banana Loaf,” “Piece of My Heart Tart,”
and “Proud Mary Pie.” But not one is named after my dad’s
greatest hit. But then again, that wasn’t even recorded until
the nineties.
And as for my dad and his rock godness? Well, that was all
pretty short-lived. Their second album totally flopped, and
now he lives in New York City, where he owns an art gallery
in SoHo.
But before you get the wrong idea and think that having a
one-hit-wonder dad, and an organic bakery-café-owning mom
makes me popular—think again. The only people at school who
actually know my name are Sloane and my English teacher.
Everyone else either ignores me or checks the seating chart.
But soon, all that will change.
When the smoothies are finally all blended and ready, I lift
the glass container and carefully pour it into three
(recycled) plastic cups. And as I look up I come face-to-face
with Cash Davis—the single most gorgeous guy to ever walk the
face of the earth.
Or at least the sidewalks of Laguna Beach.
But definitely the halls of Ocean High.
I take a deep breath and try to ignore the fact that my hands
have gone all shaky, and my upper lip is now sporting major
sweat beads, while my stomach is throbbing with this weird,
nervous ping. And all of this is occurring because I’ve never
actually been this close to him before. Not that I haven’t
dreamed of it, like a gazillion times. But up until now, our
relationship has pretty much consisted of Sloane and me
silently worshiping his golden hair, piercing blue eyes, sixfoot,
totally ripped, muscle-bound frame, and amazing denimclad
butt, while he remains completely oblivious of our very
existence.
I glance quickly at Jaci to see if she’s going to actually
say something to Cash, but the way she and Holly and Claire
are twirling their hair and nudging one another, it’s pretty
obvious that cool as they are, even they have no idea how to
talk to him. Because even though those three were like the
big shit in the freshman class, and are destined to reign
again this year when we’re sophomores, Cash Davis is in a
league of his own. I mean, he’s hot, he’s a senior, he’s a
varsity football star, and he drives a Hummer. Need I say
more?
I blow a strand of mousy brown hair out of my eyes and grab
three plastic, domed lids to cover the smoothies, gently
pushing down and trying to get a secure seal when Cash goes,
“What’s the Marrakech Expresso? Is that a coffee shake?”
And I get so flustered when I hear his voice actually
addressing me, that my already sweaty palms slip against the
slick plastic lid, slamming it into the counter and sending
all three smoothies soaring to the floor, one after another,
like Acapulco cliff divers. And when it’s finally over, the
floor, the counter, and I are completely covered in a thick,
viscous coating of Purple Berry Haze.
I stand there for a moment, watching as Jaci, Holly, and
Claire break out in total hysterics, laughing like crazy,
falling all over one another, and pointing at me.
While Cash just stands there, taking in the mess, shaking his
head, and going, “Oh, man, that is sick!”
And me? I turn around and make a run for the back room.
Bursting through the door, I toss my apron toward the laundry
hamper, watching as it slides off the top and falls to the
floor.
“You missed,” Autumn says, barely looking up from her
drawing. “Not to mention that it’s not even four yet, and no
way am I covering for you.” She continues to shade in the
area around Joaquin Phoenix’s deep, dark, mysterious eyes,
which I must admit she’s captured perfectly.
“Don’t mess with me, Autumn,” I say, grabbing a towel and
dabbing furiously at my clothing, trying to rid it of Purple
Berry slime.
“I mean it. I’m not going out there ’til the big hand is on
the twelve,” she says, her cute little elfin face hidden by
her long, murky blond hair that acts like a screen between
us.
“Whatever,” I say, grabbing my bag and heading for the back
door, since I can’t exactly use the front. I mean, I’m like a
fugitive now, running from my own humiliation.
“I’m serious! Hey, Winter? Where you going?” Autumn yells,
charcoal poised in midair, large brown eyes narrowed and
focused on me.
And even though it’s not nice, and even though she probably
doesn’t deserve it, I need to lash out at someone, and she
just happens to be the only one here. “None of your freaking
business!” I yell, and then I slam the door behind me and
hurry down the narrow alleyway, holding my breath as I pass
the smelly, green Dumpsters, while hoping to avoid the
creepy, skinny guy of indeterminate age who seems to be on a
permanent cigarette break from his job at the corner liquor
store.
But why I thought I’d be so lucky is beyond me.
“Hey,” he says, taking a really deep drag and squinting at
me. “Couple more weeks and those dolphin-art-buying assholes
will be all cleared out. Can’t wait to get my town back.” He
flicks the newly formed ash onto the ground, not even caring
that some of it has drifted right back at him, clinging to
the front of his black T-shirt and jeans.
Oh, jeez, this again. Ranting about seashell-art-loving
tourists is one of his favorite pastimes. I just mumble
something noncommittal and hurry past. I mean, no way am I
stopping to talk with this guy. It’s like he’s always out
here, wearing the same all-black outfit, which means he
either has a closetful of black, thinks he’s Johnny Cash, or
(more likely) he only does his laundry like, once every six
weeks. Not to mention that he totally gives me the creeps. I
mean, you’d think his boss would do something about the fact
that he spends more time smoking in the alley than working
behind the counter. And why he thinks I’d be interested in
standing right alongside him, bashing tourists, and making
fun of their lame art-buying habits is beyond me.
“You can thank MTV for this mess! They’re not content with
destroying the music world, now they’re going after my world!
Don’t fall prey to that corporate-branding crap!” he yells at
my retreating back.
But I just ignore him, cross the street, and board the Laguna
Beach shuttle bus. Grabbing an empty seat near the back, and
praying (not for the first time) that Mr. Back Alley Smoker
is not gonna be my new daddy. Because believe me, I’ve heard
my mom say some very similar things.
Heading down Pacific Coast Highway (a.k.a. PCH), I gaze at
all the little shops, restaurants, and galleries, remembering
how great (not to mention, convenient) it was when Sloane
lived right across the street. We spent so much of our
childhood running back and forth to each other’s houses,
getting this toy from Sloane’s or that CD from mine, that our
moms used to joke about building a bridge.
But now our moms don’t even talk, much less joke. Which I
have to admit, still feels kind of weird. I mean, they used
to be best friends, sitting on the porch on hot summer nights
sipping beer and complaining about our absentee dads while
Sloane and I rehearsed one of the intricately plotted plays
or music videos that I wrote, produced, and directed and that
she starred in. I mean, years of tap and ballet had made her
a natural performer, while I, a little more cerebral and far
less coordinated, felt way more comfortable behind the
scenes. Though sometimes I did take the stage during the
musical numbers, since I like to write songs and sing.
But after the sixth-grade “Lady Marmalade” talent show fiasco
(I mean, who knew that many of the parents spoke French?), we
gave up the stage. And a couple of years later our mothers
gave up their friendship.
At first it was awkward, watching them go from beer-swigging
gripe sessions to not even speaking, but then Sloane’s mom
got pregnant and married (yes, in that order), and in a
matter of weeks, they moved to a swanky gated community in
south Laguna, an older gay couple moved into their old space,
and I became a regular on the Laguna Beach shuttle bus,
making the daily commute from my neighborhood to hers.
When I get to Sloane’s, I find her mom in the driveway,
struggling to get a screaming, pink-clad baby Blair into her
car seat.
“Sloane’s in her room,” she says, barely glancing at me.
I stand there cringing as I listen to Blair shriek at the top
of her lungs. “Um, do you need help?” I ask, even though I
have no idea how I could possibly assist, other than risking
bodily harm by grabbing hold of those tiny, furiously kicking
limbs and pinning the baby down. But when she doesn’t answer,
I just head straight into the house and upstairs to Sloane’s
room.
“Perfect timing,” Sloane says, removing her earplugs and
tossing her iPod onto her big, wood, canopy bed. “They’re on
their way to Mommy and Me. Did you notice the matching
outfits?” She rolls her eyes.
“I didn’t know Juicy made clothes for one-year-olds,” I say,
plopping onto her furry zebra print butterfly chair, which is
one of the few things she was allowed to transfer from her
old life to her new one.
“They don’t. My mom had it made special just for Blair. I
swear, that kid was born to be homecoming queen.” She laughs.
“And speaking of.” I look at her, smiling with anticipation.
“Follow me.”
I trail her into her bathroom, which is practically bigger
than the bedroom Autumn and I are forced to share, and make
myself comfortable on the edge of her oversized Jacuzzi tub.
“Okay, so this is what I got,” she says, reaching into a
cupboard and pulling out two bulging plastic bags that seem
like they just might possibly contain the entire hair and
beauty section of the Monarch Beach CVS Drugstore. “I chose
Frosty Latte for you, since I figured with your medium to
light brown hair color you can probably go about two shades
lighter and still look natural, and then I bought Macadamia
Fizz for me.” She tosses me the box with a picture of a
smiling woman on the front, her thick, coffee-colored hair
rippling in the wind as her eyes focus directly on mine,
daring me to try it.
“Are we supposed to drink this or pour it on our hair?” I
laugh, staring at the color swatches on the back and trying
to imagine myself with a frosty latte head.
“And check this out, I went crazy with the lip glosses and
eye pencils. I figured with your brown hair and eyes, and me
being blond and blue-eyed, it should be pretty easy to divvy
it all up, right?”
She pours a pile of makeup onto the rug, and we kneel down
around it, sorting through it, popping off tops, and coloring
on the back of our hands. And when I gaze up at her, I can’t
help but feel this overwhelming surge of gratitude that she’s
actually gone and done this for me, because it’s not like she
has to dabble in drugstore makeup anymore. I mean, even
though she may have grown up kind of poor, now, since her
mom’s remarriage, she’s actually pretty rich. Which is kind
of like having an all-access, backstage pass to the aisles of
Sephora and all the best hair salons. And even though,
technically, I’m not poor, I’m not exactly wealthy, either.
Not to mention how my mom would never agree to pay for stuff
like this. And all the money I saved from slaving in the café
all summer? Well, that’s already been spent on some imagealtering,
life-changing school clothes.
“Sloane, thanks,” I say, smiling shyly, as part of me
considers telling her about the humiliating smoothie incident
I’d just barely survived, while the other part, the smarter,
more careful part, doesn’t allow it.
I mean, we’ve been planning this makeover and social coup
since the last day of ninth grade, so there’s no way I can
tell her how just one day before the first day of school and
our well-planned debut, I may have already blown it.
But she just shrugs. “Please, it’s way more fun this way.
Besides, we’re in this together, right?”
I look at her and smile. “Who goes first?” I ask, opening the
box and retrieving a pair of rubber gloves, knowing that no
matter what happens with our plan, whether we succeed or
fail, we’ll always be friends.
Copyright © 2007 by Alyson Noël. All rights reserved.
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