I'm So Sure (2009), Page 2

  A movement catches my eye outside the door, and I see Lindy Miller, all wide-eyed and spastic hands, gesturing for me to come into the hall. Lindy ducks when Mrs. Palmer glances in her direction.

  I make my way to the front of the classroom. “Um, Mrs. Palmer? Can I go blow my nose outside?”

  She puts down her pen and frowns. “You can’t do that in here?”

  “I tend to make goose honks when I blow.”

  She waves me away and returns her attention to the student news program.

  I grab a Kleenex and sail out the door. “What is it?”

  Lindy looks like she just missed the game-winning shot. “I . . .” She covers her red face. “It’s bad, Bella. It’s really bad.”

  My heart drops to my toes. “Tell me.”

  “The class president moved today!”

  Oh.

  “Er, sorry.” I pat her on the shoulder. “I didn’t know you and Harry Wu Fong were that close.”

  “No!” she hisses. “Don’t you get it? We have, like, three months until prom. The class president is in charge of that. With him gone, the vice president takes his place. And—”

  “You’re the VP.” It all makes sense now. A few months ago, my tomboy friend Lindy got a total makeover. Kicky haircut, golden highlights, waxed brows, new clothes. All to impress her BFF Matt, who still has no idea she wants to be more than friends. Though she rarely wears the makeup I bought her, she still looks great. But she has no idea what to do with making anything pretty—like an entire prom. She hates froufrou stuff. Why she’s friends with me, I’ll never know.

  “No, I’m not the VP. Now I’m the stinkin’ president!” She wrings hands that can grip a basketball with no problem. “I don’t know how to organize a prom. Harry Wu left me his notes, but aside from reserving the Truman Inn banquet room, there’s nothing done, and prom is practically tomorrow!”

  “Relax, would you? You have plenty of time. And you know I’ll help you. Plus, I’m pretty sure you have a prom committee or something, right?”

  “I have minions?” She relaxes a little. “This might not be so bad. I totally get to boss people around, don’t I? How hard could prom planning be anyway?”

  “It will be fine. I organized lots of formal events at Hilliard.” That’s my old private school in Manhattan. My former best friend, Mia, still goes to school there. This is the same friend I caught making out with Hunter not so long ago. I was always willing to share anything with Mia—purses, shoes, a new hat. But my boyfriend’s lips? A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

  Confident that Lindy is over her panic attack, I return to class.

  Mrs. Palmer lifts a brow as I pass by. “Took you quite a while.”

  “Major drainage.”

  On my way to journalism class, I make a pit stop at the girl’s bathroom and touch up my face. It’s become a ritual. Reapply gloss, give my hair a shake, and make sure nothing is dangling from my nose. It’s not that I care what Luke thinks. Seriously, I don’t.

  Maybe a little. But I’d never go out with him.

  Mr. Holman, the newspaper advisor, intercepts me at the classroom door. “In my office, please.”

  I trail behind him and find Luke already seated.

  And ticked.

  His arms are crossed, and he glares at me over his tortoiseshell glasses. His inky black hair is slightly mussed, like he’s run frustrated hands through it.

  I sit down in the vacant seat beside Luke, while Mr. Holman perches on the corner of his desk. “Bella, you’ve done some topnotch investigative reporting for the paper.”

  “Oh.” I nod demurely. “Thanks.” Take that Luke Sullivan!

  Mr. Holman casts a furtive glance at Luke then continues. “I’d like to have you writing your own column. We decided that a regular feature on teen life in Truman would be a nice angle. Maybe start with a series on the life of a working student. We think that would be a great idea.”

  “We didn’t think so. Mr. Holman did.” Luke breathes through his nose like a bull ready to charge. “You’ve only been on staff since

  August. You still need to work on the basics, in my opinion. You’re not ready for your own column.”

  My spine stiffens, and I feel my cheeks flush pink. “I think I can handle it.”

  Luke rolls his eyes. “This will not be some fluff piece. It’s serious. This isn’t Seventeen magazine. We’re a reputable paper. We have—”

  “Colleges watching us. I know.” Boy, do I know. I hear that mantra in my sleep.

  Mr. Holman stands up and wipes at a jelly stain on his shirt. “We’ll announce it on the morning news program and give the students an opportunity to e-mail you with their ideas and work stories.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Sounds great. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Holman?” Another staff member sticks her head in the door. “I need you to check my copy.”

  He rests his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll start this tomorrow. It will be a great addition to the paper. Really liven things up.” Mr. Holman walks out of the office and into the small class.

  The tension stays behind.

  The fluorescent lights hum. The heater blows. The clock ticks.

  But Luke Sullivan doesn’t move.

  I gather my things and rise. “Alrighty then. Just gonna get started on—” Suddenly he’s at the doorway, blocking my exit. I catch a hint of his cologne.

  “If you were truly interested in being a serious journalist, you would know that you need to stick with the basics and continue building your skills. This isn’t like the little advice column you wrote at your old school.”

  Little? “Since when is helping people little?” Ugh, sometimes, this boy. One minute he’s got my skin tingling with his charm, and the next he’s barking orders like a drill sergeant, and I want to kick his shins. Jerk.

  His eyes bore into mine. “I won’t cut you any slack on your deadlines.”

  “Nobody asked you to.”

  “And you realize you’ll need a job. A few of them, in fact. You’ll need to make the arrangements and get local businesses to hire you temporarily.”

  “Yeah, I was totally going to work that angle. I know you’re really busy with your Harvard girlfriend, so don’t worry about me monopolizing any of your time.” Omigosh! Did I just say that? Rewind! Rewind!

  His left cheek dimples. “Are you jealous?”

  “No, actually I’m sad.” I give a slight smile. “For her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to go out with you. You probably tell her what to order on your dates. Or maybe you woo her by reading aloud from the Wall Street Journal.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Luke leans over me until there are mere inches between us. “Have fun joining the working class.” And he walks out.

  “I—I will!” Take that.

  Okay, if it weren’t for the fact that he saved my life last quarter, I’d really let him have it. But no, he simply had to show up at just the right moment and rescue me from a homicidal football player intent on killing me. I totally could’ve handled it myself.

  All right, so I was drugged to the point of drooling and on my way to permanent nappy-time, but whatever. I would’ve figured something out.

  Lunch rolls around, and before I can beeline to the caf, I hear my name on the school intercom. Great. What now? Maybe the principal wants to talk to me about my ideas to redecorate the building. It’s in serious need of a makeover. A little style would help everyone’s test scores.

  I push through the office door and the secretary greets me. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  I turn around and there in a torn vinyl seat is Hunter Penbrook.

  For a minute I remember what I first saw in him. His dashing good looks. His impeccable dress. His sense of fun.

  But then he cheated on me. And now he’s just a picture on my bulletin board for target practice.

  He stands up. “Bella, it’s good to—”

  “What do you want, Hunter?” I grab his hand and lea
d him outside to the courtyard. I motion for him to sit on a picnic table while I remain standing.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  “Who are you staying with? Why are you here?”

  “My dad had some business in Tulsa, so I took the rental car for the day. We’re leaving tonight, but I had to talk to you.”

  “Uh-huh. So tell me about this medical condition you have.”

  He shakes his head and looks away. “I really don’t want to talk about it. They think something is seriously wrong with my stomach, but don’t have any clue what it is yet. I’ve been to the ER a few times. My dad is making them run every test known to man.”

  “But you could die?”

  He shrugs it off. “There are a lot of things uncertain right now. But Bel, I want to make things right in my life.” His hand rests on my arm. “I needed to tell you in person that I’m sorry for all the hurt I caused you.”

  Right now I’m kind of regretting the darts sticking out of his eyes on my bulletin board. “I’ve forgiven you.” Okay, I haven’t forgotten it, but when you see your best friend’s face mashed to your boyfriend’s, it’s a little hard. “Maybe you just need to forgive yourself.”

  His smile is weak. “How do you do that? How do you just forgive somebody for totally devastating you?”

  “I wouldn’t say devastate.”

  “I cheated on you with Mia and ripped your heart open—”

  “More like a slight snag. A paper cut.”

  “—and you just forgive me?”

  I really want to roll my eyes here. “Yup. It’s kind of what you’re supposed to do.”

  Hunter’s hand drops away, and he watches the lunch activity around us. Students play basketball. A couple shares a Powerade and some nachos. “I want that. I want what you have, Bel.”

  I snap to attention. “Well, you can’t have it. Your all-access pass to Bella Kirkwood has expired.”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if struggling for words. “I mean . . . I’d like to understand your faith better.” Hunter meets my eyes. “I think I need that in my life.”

  I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my relationship with Hunter. One would be dating him in the first place. Hunter is not a Christian. I knew this. Knew I wasn’t supposed to go fishing for a boyfriend in unsaved waters. And there might’ve been some other mess-ups, but if God can wipe my slate clean, why rehash?

  “So you’re here in Truman because you want me to tell you about Jesus?”

  Hunter rubs a hand over his face. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just felt compelled to see you. Like I’ve been led here this week.”

  “I don’t really know what to say.”

  He tightens his jacket around him. “I know this is all really awkward. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I won’t be back . . . I’m sorry.” And he walks away.

  Sometimes being a good person is a serious pain.

  I run after him. “Hunter, wait.” My arm reaches out, clinging to him until he turns around. “Don’t go yet.”

  “I just need a friend, Bella. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I slowly nod. “Okay.”

  And he enfolds me in a hug.

  I allow myself the moment, remembering how I used to love these arms, these hugs. His smell. His strength.

  Hunter breaks away, his eyes wide. “What is that?”

  I follow the direction of his finger and blanch. “Nooo.”

  There across the street is a two-man camera crew.

  “Bella, what is that?”

  I give my back to the camera. “That is the end of life as I know it.”

  chapter four

  It’s hard to have a mature conversation with someone in a spandex onesie.

  “I have cameras following me around.”

  Jake looks up from his choke hold in the middle of the wrestling ring. “We’ve talked about this. Marv Noblitz told us what to expect.”

  “Hi, Bella. Good day at school?” This from the man whose head is trapped in the crook of Jake’s arm.

  “Hey, Squiggy.” Squiggy Salducci is actually John Pederson, but that doesn’t make for a good name in the ring. His persona is a nerd, complete with high-waisted pants and dork glasses. He calls himself “the intellectual wrestler.”

  “Jake, I just didn’t expect it to be so intrusive.”

  He laughs as he pins Squiggy to the mat. “If you think that’s bad, just wait ’til the crew sets up in the house.”

  Yeah, I have tried to block those details out. I’m in reality show denial.

  “The main focus will be on me, Bella. Don’t worry too much about it.” Jake releases Squiggy from the floor. “Hey, Luke. Right on time.”

  Turning around, I find my editor-in-chief approaching. His eyes land on me briefly before turning their full focus on Jake. “Are you ready for the match this weekend?” he asks my stepdad.

  “It’s the first round of elimination for the show. I think I’m ready.” Jake shakes Luke’s hand.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Covering the reality show for the local paper. Sometimes I work freelance for them. That way I can run the stories in the Truman High Tribune too.”

  “How convenient. Who called you?”

  “Your mom.”

  Perfect.

  “Who’s the guy you were talking to at lunch?” he asks.

  Oh, just my boyfriend. He goes to Princeton. “An old friend. Jealous?”

  Luke smiles. “No. Just needed to know if this was someone of interest for the show.”

  “I’m headed to the diner. You boys have fun talking.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk away. “And Jake, if you want a real writer, you know where I live.”

  I think Sugar’s Diner was new sometime when Lincoln was in office and women still wore corsets. Any updates to the Truman establishment were made in the fifties, and things haven’t changed since. Pink walls. Jukebox. Red barstools.

  When I swing open the door of Sugar’s, I find my mom on one of these barstools. She has a cup of coffee in one hand and a pencil in the other. My mother used to be a Manhattan socialite. That was before Dad traded her in for a newer model. She went from the country club in New York to the blue plate special in Truman.

  I sidle up beside her. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Hey, sweetie.” She gives me a side hug and brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Just going over the family budget.”

  “Yeah, about that. No more off-brand deodorant please. My pits know the difference.”

  She laughs, but it’s short-lived as her face grows serious. “Want a milk shake?”

  Anxiety does the rumba in my stomach. “You only offer me a shake when something’s wrong. Spill it.”

  Mom chews on the end of her pencil before tucking it into her blonde ponytail. “Talked to your father today.”

  That’s never good. The two have nothing in common now but me. And Dad only calls Mom when there’s something bad he needs to communicate to me but doesn’t have the guts to do it himself. Dad is a brilliant plastic surgeon. But when it comes to parenting, he’s as effective as a crooked nose job.

  She blows on her coffee. “Your dad has run into some financial troubles.”

  “But he has an accountant.”

  “Not anymore. Seems she took his money and left for an undisclosed location. Your dad is in pretty hot water with the IRS.”

  “Didn’t he check the accountant’s credentials?”

  “I think thirty-six–D was all he needed to know.” Mom rolls her shoulders and looks me square in the eye. “This means no more under-the-table daddy payouts for you. Your days of visiting him and maxing out his credit card are over.”

  Mom believes we should all live on her and Jake’s income, so my child support checks get put into a trust. I think it’s the stupidest idea ever. But it hasn’t been that bad because I do get in some serious shopping when I visit Dad once a month. I had high hopes for some splurging this weekend in Manhattan.<
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  “Bella, you’re seventeen. I think you know what this means. It’s time to live like other people your age.”

  “I have to get my purses off eBay?”

  “You need to get a job.”

  “I’m already on it.”

  My mom just stares.

  “Seriously. I got my own regular feature in the Tribune, and I have to write a series of articles on the working teenager.” I roll my brown eyes. “It should be one swell time.”

  “A little part-time work won’t be so bad. Something to give you some spending money. Besides, it’s going to be good for you.”

  “That’s what you said about the Raisin Bran this morning.” Ew.

  “Logan works.” She’s referring to my stepbrother, who is also seventeen. Everyone on the planet calls him Budge but my mom.

  “I’m not sure where I’ll work, but I do know I am not serving hot dogs at the Wiener Palace.” I have my pride. “But as far as Dad’s money issue is concerned, I’m sure he will have this all cleared up soon.” And I’ll be back in business with the occasional shopping sprees.

  Mom stands up and stretches her back. She grabs her order pad and sticks it in her apron. “You can talk to him about that this weekend.”

  Dolly O’Malley busts through the kitchen doors with an ample hip and an armload of shopping bags. Like my mom, she’s a waitress. Unlike my mom, who still drips the occasional coffee and drops a plate a week, Dolly waitresses with as much finesse as a prima ballerina.

  “What’s in the bags?” I ask.

  Dolly’s face glows beneath her too-pink blush, and she looks to my mom. “I need your opinion. We know it’s a boy, so do I go with a blue crib set?” She holds up a small quilt the color of a robin’s egg. “Or maybe something more neutral like yellow?”

  “Who’s having a baby?” I reach for the yellow comforter as Mom hands me a chocolate-and-banana shake.

  Dolly takes a deep breath and grins. “I am!”

  I nearly spew ice cream out my nose. “What?” I look back and forth between my mom and her friend. “But you’re single . . . and you’re, like”—fifty or something old like that—“so mature.”

  Dolly gives her big, blonde hair a toss, a pointless act since it hasn’t moved since 1985. “I’m only forty-six.”