KissnTell

Chapter 1

THE SKETCHY-SHADY INVITE

Vaughn

 

 

"Nice granny panties, asshole."

I recognized the high-pitched squeak that was Stella Beldon's voice as the elastic band of my less-than-sophisticated Jockeys snapped against my lower back. Stella, by the way, is the one and only daughter of world-renowned actor Jack Beldon, though you'd think she was the spawn of Satan. She laughed in my face, which wouldn't have bothered me much except that she was surrounded by her entire crew, including the distinctly hot Xander Carrington. It was exactly ten weeks ago, back when I was nothing to these people but scum on the scarlet soles of their $1,200 shoes. Back when I had no experience with nightclubs, haute couture, or paparazzi.

"Hold up, hold up," Xander objected, raising a hand in protest. Stella shot him daggers for deigning to disagree with her holy word. "She needs the granny panties," he said, his blue-gray eyes gleaming.

My heart fluttered. Was it possible Xander Carrington was about to come to my defense? I grinned dreamily at him, hopeful.

"They're the only ones big enough to support her schlong," he retorted, clapping his hands proudly at his own punch line. Everyone laughed. I buried my face in my locker, pretending to ignore them, but, as always, I was dying inside.

I was one of their regular targets. Another was Anais, my best friend. Sometimes she felt like my only friend. As soon as they had cleared the corner at the end of the hall, I turned to her, forlorn.

"I told you we should've splurged on the Cosabella thongs!" I whined.

Anais rolled her eyes. "We both know it wouldn't do us any good." Anais was the wise one, the sensible one. "And anyway, what's wrong with granny panties? I happen to like them. They're comfortable," she said, shrugging. Sometimes she seemed so unflappable it made me want to scream.

I collapsed onto my locker, pouting. "Now Xander knows I wear undies fit for pre- puberty," I lamented. "There are legitimate tweens with sexier panties," I continued frantically.

Anais sighed and shut her locker. "We're late," she murmured, making her way to the east wing for Pre-Calculus. She didn't feel my pain.

"Let me put it to you in movie terms," I explained, trailing after her. "It's like Field of Dreams. If you wear Cosabella, they will come!"

Anais stopped short and narrowed her eyes at me. I inhaled, bracing myself for one of her famous, cutting one-liners, which I think she gets from watching tons of old movies with the Film Society.

"You're saying you want a dead sports team to play ball on your crotch?" she snapped.

I was saying I wanted desperately to be part of the in-crowd. But I didn't exactly fit the bill. For starters, I played the flute. In fact, I was damn good at the flute. So good, Mr. Waters, our grouchy band conductor, would often take me aside after practice, clasp his hands together and just sigh contentedly. (I was his favorite.) To be honest, when I played, and in the few moments after when Mr. Waters's eyes glistened happily, I felt sublimely confident. Like how I imagine the Shrew Crew must feel all the time. But for me it never lasted long. Because excelling at the flute was the type of thing that impressed grandmothers and college admissions officers—not girls like Stella Beldon. To Stella and all the other socially-blessed students at Cranbrook Academy, I was just a freak in hideous polyester, and my music was just super uncool noise.

I was also a scholarship kid. One of the few at Cranbrook, along with Anais. Anyone remotely un-evil would be surprised that, in this day and age, people judged us by the size of our (parents') bank accounts, but they did indeed. They judged my clothes, which I bought mostly at Urban Outfitters and American Apparel, usually at the beginning of the school year when my parents had some extra money set aside to replace the clothes I'd grown out of. They judged me for wearing the same items over and over again. They judged me for not having my own car, for taking the bus to school, for living in the Valley, for having the wrong shoes and the wrong haircut and the wrong life. It was humiliating and frustrating, because I adore fashion, devouring images from the pages of Vogue and Elle and Harper'sBAZAAR that Anais's mom sneaks home from the salon where she works. I spend a crapload of time scouring magazines for cheap-o imitations. It also put a huge strain on my relationship with my parents, whom I obviously blamed for not making enough money to give me everything the Shrew Crew had.