So Not Happening (2009), Page 2

  Everything except me.

  “So, Bella”—my friend Jasmine flips her hair—“are you and Hunter ready to do this long-distance thing?”

  I sip my virgin daiquiri and look at the giant Buddha statue across the crowded restaurant. “Sure. Yeah.” I nod and smile at my two friends surrounding me at the table. “Definitely.”

  Mia looks skeptical and Jasmine doesn't meet my eyes.

  “Hunter is totally cool with the move.” I force a dreamy look into my eyes and turn to Mia. “We'll just take it day by day, you know? With the phone, e-mail, text messages ... it will be like we're not even apart.”

  We pay our bill and walk outside into the muggy August evening air, where Mia's driver pulls up in an Escalade. The three of us pile into the back, giggling over nothing in particular.

  I smooth my miniskirt then dig through my bag for lip gloss. “My last time for Club Viva. At least for a while.” I sigh, thinking of my fond memories of our favorite teen dance spot.

  Thirty minutes later, the Escalade stops at the entrance to Viva's, and we link arms and sashay to the entrance.

  “Name?”

  I blink at the bouncer. “Richie. It's me.” I laugh. “Bella?” I'm a regular! I wait for comprehension to settle in.

  It doesn't. “Bella?”

  “Bella Kirkwood?”

  “Oh yeah . . . Bella.” Richie scratches his bald head. “I'm sorry, Miss Kirkwood, you're not on the list tonight.”

  “What? Of course I am! I'm always on the list.” I gesture behind me. “We're all on the list.” Dude, we are thelist.

  He taps his clipboard and frowns, his forehead wrinkling into folds. “Nope. Sorry. Your friends are here, but you're not. We have a special band performing tonight, and we can only take who's on the sheet here.”

  I feel the heat of my embarrassment all the way to my toes.

  The bouncer runs a meaty finger under his too-tight collar. “Tell you what, I'll make an exception . . . but just this once.”

  I know I should say thank you, but I'm too busy holding back a good “Do you know who I am?”

  “Since you didn't make the cut, I'll have to escort you in myself.” Richie unhooks the cording and lets me pass, then stops me. “The back way. Only A-listers go through the front.”

  I stand rooted to my spot. A-listers? I am an A-lister! I'm an A plus! I'm A squared. A times infinity!

  He travels fast on long legs, and in my four-inch heels and extra-large attitude, it's everything I can do to keep up. With a fist the size of a Hummer tire, he pounds on the door twice. The pulsing music grows louder as the door swings open.

  The back entryway is dark, and I step closer to my escort. We round the corner, then Richie abruptly stops.

  “This is the door to the dance floor,” he yells over the music. “Knock three times, then go in. Someone will be on the other side to help you find your friends.”

  I lift my manicured hand and pound three times. I push on the door, but it doesn't budge. Rearing back, I tackle it with my left shoulder, sending it flying on its hinges.

  I blink hard as the lights flare to full life.

  “Surprise!”

  My hands fly to cover my mouth as the room erupts into flashes, cheers, and shouts. The techno song is replaced with “Bye, Bye, Bye.”

  Banners hang from the back wall. WE'LL MISS YOU, BELLA! and WE LOVE YOU! and BELLA + NYC = FOREVER!

  “Oh my gosh!” I shake my head and scan the room, reveling at the sight of a club full of friends. “You guys are the best.” Tears pool and I quickly swipe them away as Hunter, my tower of studliness, ambles my way, arms open wide. I fold into him, and we stand under a strobe light, just hanging on and laughing.

  I kiss his cheek. “Did you do this?”

  He shrugs. “I had a lot of help.” Hunter smiles and gestures to Mia, who stands two feet behind us. With a laugh, she leaps to us, moving in for a three-way bear hug.

  “How am I ever going to make it without you two?”

  “You're not going to.” Hunter laces his fingers with mine and pulls me to his side. “Nothing's going to change just because you're moving.”

  “Totally.” Mia's long blonde hair swings as she nods. “We'll miss you while you're away, but we'll just have to make the most of the time you spend here.”

  The music roars to full volume, and I can feel the bass rumble in my chest. The crowd of my friends fills the dance floor and circles around us. With a final hug to Mia, I pull Hunter along behind me, and I work the room, speaking to every person I pass.

  Forty-five minutes later, I've worn out the words thank you and my chest hurts from excessive, jubilant hugging.

  “Let's get you something to drink.” I follow Hunter to the bar area, where he orders my Club Viva usual. A Sprite with cherry syrup. Three cherries, no stems.”

  I smile into his beaming face. He leans down, brushes away my bangs, then kisses my forehead. Does it get any better than this boy? He's hot, he's thoughtful, and he throws a good party. What more do I need?

  Hunter gets a water for himself, then we walk upstairs to find a table overlooking the dance floor. He pulls out my chair, and I smile at his ever-present politeness. Such the gentleman, that boy.

  Hunter is the only guy I've dated. Well, besides Sammy Nugent in the sixth grade, but that was only so he'd share his Oreos with me during children's church. Mr. Perfect and I have been together for two years. Our meeting was like Disney-movie heaven. He was a freshman at Royce Boys Academy, and I was in the same grade at the Hilliard School for Girls. Twice a year, our administration decides to pretend there are boys in the population, so they bring the two schools together for a social. I remember I was dancing with this tall, redheaded kid who had a retainer and watered me like a sprinkler every time he used the letter s. Then with a tap at his shoulder, the boy stopped moving, turned around, and there was Hunter Penbrook.

  “Sorry to butt in, but I have to leave soon, and she promised me a dance.”

  I giggled with relief and curiosity at this handsome ninth grader. Of course, being shut away from boys at my all-girls school, I pretty much giggled anytime someone of the male species was near.

  “I don't remember you asking me to dance this evening,” I had said, letting this cute stranger take my hand and lead me into a slow dance.

  “You didn't. But I thought you looked like you needed saving.”

  He thought I looked like I needed saving. And with those words, I knew I couldn't let him go. Two years later, here we are. Hunter and Bella.

  Together forever.

  I hope.

  chapter four

  Dear Loyal Readers of Ask Miss Hilliard,

  As you know, when it is time for the reigning advice queen, Miss Hilliard, to move on, she must pass the torch. It is with great sadness (believe me, you have no idea) that I type my last blog entry as your queen of advice, your royalty of reason. My successor has been chosen, and the new Miss Hilliard will begin next week. So keep those e-mails coming. The new Miss Hilliard has plenty of wisdom to share.

  Thank you, my readers, for trusting me with your questions and dilemmas. As I leave our fine school, it seems I have acquired problems of my own. Who does an advice columnist go to for help? Please keep your former friend in your thoughts and prayers as I leave my beloved city and go to a place of complete and utter lack of refinement. I will be living on a farm complete with dirt roads and cows. I have been assured there are no muddy pigs, as we all know from dissection lab last year about my little swine phobia. But, ladies, my situation is dire.This town probably has no fashion. No style. No Starbucks, people! War criminals probably see better conditions.

  Think of me fondly and know that your problems filled me with joy.

  I shut my laptop and stare out my airplane window. Oklahoma in all its green glory stretches out beneath me.

  “Thank you for flying American Airlines. We welcome you to Tulsa. If this is your final destination, you can pick up your baggage .
..”

  Welcome to Tulsa. An hour away from my new home in a town called Truman. My stomach clenches at the very idea. I can't shake this feeling that I'll wake up any moment and discover this has all been a bad dream. I'll jump out of bed, find my parents drinking lattes in the living room, and be safely tucked away in our Manhattan apartment. God can do anything, right? Give sight to the blind, heal the lame, raise the dead ... roll the stone away and resurrect my old life.

  Fifteen minutes later I follow the crowd to baggage claim.

  And there stands my mom.

  Surrounded by my new stepfamily—Jake the Giant and his two mongrel sons.

  “Bella!” She rushes to me, arms open wide, and pulls me close. “I've missed you!”

  “You too.” My face is pressed to her shoulder.

  Mom takes a step back, her face beaming. “I can't wait to get you all settled in. We got back from the honeymoon a few days early, so I've been fixing up your room.”

  “Yeah, as in the room that used to be mine.”

  I look past my mother's shoulder to find Logan glaring at me like I'm overcooked spinach.

  Robbie runs around us, a red Superman cape flying behind him. “Me and Budge are roomies now.”

  I stare at Logan's back as he walks away. “Remind me again why people call him Budge?”

  Mom shrugs. “A nickname from his mother.”

  I guess it's better than Bubba.

  An hour later, Jake's old Tahoe lurches to a stop in the dusty driveway.

  “Home sweet home.” Mom hugs me for the trillionth time. “I can't wait for you to see your room.”

  “Oh . . . the waiting has been just as painful for me too.” I peel my legs out of the vehicle and step onto the ground.

  Right into cow poop. “Ew!” Sick. “How does poop get in the yard?” I run toward a patch of grass and shuffle my feet like they're on fire.

  Logan and Robbie laugh as they enter the house.

  “Welcome to farm life.” Jake chuckles and follows behind his sons.

  Yeah, thanks a lot. Glad to he here. Stupid . . . pooping . . . cows.

  The wraparound front porch looks like something from a Tim Burton movie—rickety, spooky, and ready to sprout jaws and collapse on someone at any moment.

  Mom practically skips ahead of me and flings open the creaking screen door. Clutching my cat in her travel bag, I step inside.

  “Isn't it cute?” Mom's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. “It's going to be a lot of fun decorating. We can do that together.”

  I stare. Mute. Appalled at the décor around me. I think 1970 came for a visit, threw up, and never left. In the living room to my left is an orange couch, sagging in the middle like it gave up. Yellowed lace curtains hang crookedly over a filmy window.

  Over my right shoulder is the dining room. A beaten and battered “wood” table takes up most of the space, piled high with newspapers, books, and random cereal toys. I am drawn to the mess like a moth to a bug zapper. I place Moxie's bag on the hardwood floor and slip into the room. With a ringed finger, I write my name in cursive on the dusty table.

  I turn around as Mom stands behind me. “It's not too late to change your mind,” I whisper, my eyes boring into hers. “We slip out the back door, we hop a plane, and—”

  “Bella.” Her hands clench my shoulders. “This is it. Accept it. You're not even trying.”

  “Trying!” I laugh. “A few months may be all you need to adjust to the idea of a new family and life in this . . . this frat house, but I need more time. This home isn't even civilized. I'm afraid to look in my room. Let me guess, gingham curtains and something that resembles an old doily for a comforter?”

  “No. Of course not!” Mom blinks. “Maybe a Lord of the Rings bedspread, but it's gone.”

  “Perfect.” My eyes flit across the table and take in the family's collection of junk. A newspaper from last December. Two candy bar wrappers. A stack of wrestling magazines.

  Mom pushes me toward the stairs. “We need to get you unpacked.”

  The stairs creak with every step and lead us to a series of rooms on the second floor.

  Mom points out Budge and Robbie's room, then grabs my hand and pulls me to the bedroom at the end of the hall. “This is it.” Her hand rests on the knob. “Now before we go in, keep in mind I haven't had a lot of time to do much with it. We'll have to go shopping.” She cracks the door, only to pull it shut again. “And another thing ... you can't compare it to your room at your dad's. Or in our old apartment. It's a smaller space, okay?”

  “Just open the door, Mom.”

  She turns the knob and we both step inside. “What do you think, sweetie?”

  I turn a full circle. “I'm . . . I'm speechless.”

  My closet at my dad's could barely fit in this space. Plain white panels drape from the single window. A simple white duvet covers a twin bed, with pink pillows that used to rest on my plush queen-size bed. On the wall hang pictures of me, my family, and my friends from New York. They all smile back at me in black and white.

  “Did you see my surprise?” Robbie, wearing a Superman costume, peeks into the room. He points to the center of the bed, where a homemade card sits propped on a throw pillow.

  I force a smile and reach for the card. “I heart my new sister.” Aw, that is really sweet. “Thanks, Robbie.” I fold him in a tentative hug. “I love it.”

  “It's printed on post-consumer fiber.”

  I blink.

  “Recycled paper.” He rolls his eyes. “The Arctic Ocean could be ice-free by 2050. Every little bit helps.”

  I look to my mom as Robbie pads out of the room.

  “He's a strangely brilliant child,” she whispers. “He has an amazing photographic memory. But maybe watches a little too much cable.”

  Mom unpacks Moxie and places her on my bed. The cat sniffs her surroundings 'til I'm afraid she's going to vacuum the duvet through her nose. “Okay, so I'm going to let you unpack the rest of your stuff. And dinner's in an hour. We're all going to eat together.”

  I quirk a brow suspiciously. “You cooked?”

  “Jake went to get pizza. I have to go clean the dining room table.”

  “You're going to need more than an hour.” And a forklift. And maybe the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition team.

  I sit between my mother and Robbie at dinner. Mom places a chipped plate in front of me, and I can't help but notice that all of the plates seem to be one of a kind. As in, none of them match.

  “I'll pray.” Jake bows his head and we all follow suit. “Dear Lord, we thank You for this new beginning. For our family. We ask that You bless this food and bless our time as we get to know one another. Amen.”

  “So, Bella ...”Jake takes a slice of pizza and passes it to my mom. “How's the new room?”

  “Oh... it's ... u m . . . nice.” In the same way that pudding is nice. “Budge, I'm sorry you had to give it up for me.”

  My older stepbrother pops the top on his Coke. “It's not like I had any choice in the matter.” If this boy were an animal, he'd be growling right now. “Now I get the joy of doing homework with a six-year-old jumping from bed to bed because he thinks he's a superhero and his ability to fly is going to kick in any minute.”

  “Budge,” Jake warns.

  “My new roomie goes to bed at eight, while sometimes I don't even get in from work at the Wiener Palace until eleven, and then I get to step on every Transformer in his collection as I make my way to my bed in the dark.”

  “That's enough, Son.”

  Wait—I'm still stuck on Wiener Palace.

  “And tomorrow I get to take my computer in because Robbie here erased half my hard drive. Since he thought all my stuff was now his. I'm so glad I have a stepsister. Because before my life wasn't complete, but now”—he pushes the hair out of his eyes—“now it is. I'm so glad we're all so happy.” He slams down his plate and leaves, his chair shrieking across the old floor.

  Silence descends on the dining
room.

  Robbie smacks his lips. “Can I have his pizza?”

  When I walk into my room for the night, I find my bed neatly turned down. I grab my favorite oversized t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some undies and throw my hair into a ponytail. I slip out the door and listen in the hall for any signs of stepbrothers. Confident the area is secure, I tiptoe into the bathroom.

  Where I scream my head off. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  Budge, clad only in his boxers, squeals like a girl. “You get out!” He grabs a towel and holds it over his chest like he's hiding a set of Pamela Anderson double Ds.

  I stand frozen. My limbs refuse to move, my mouth opening and closing on words that won't form. I'm not used to seeing half-naked guys in my bathroom. Especially of the rotund, 'fro-headed variety.

  I regain my breath and jab a finger in his direction. “This is my bathroom!”

  He laughs. “Your bathroom? Au contraire, my evil stepsister. This was my bathroom, but now it's ours. We'll be sharing it.”

  “I'm not sharing a bathroom with you. Gross.”

  “You are. So don't be thinking you're gonna take over with all your little girly soaps.” He bumps me as he charges out the door, his hair dripping. “I'm watching you.” With two fingers he points from his eyes to mine. And he disappears down the hall.

  I close the door, take a seat on the dewy toilet seat, and sigh.

  Hello, God? You still up there? I realize You have some big things to deal with: global warming, wars, straightening out Hollywood. But do You even remember me? I'd like to beg You to deliver me from this overflow of ick that has become my life. I would get down on my knees for this prayer, but. . . it's gross. Please help me. I don't think I can take much more of this.

  Hours later I swim to the surface of a dream and open my eyes in the dark.

  Where am I?

  Oh yeah. Truman, Oklahoma. In the world's smallest bedroom.

  The hair on my arms prickles, and I sit up. Something's not right.

  I hear a noise from downstairs, and my heart leaps into overdrive. I dive for my phone, ready to call for help.