Where It Began

Then Andie Be

And to remind me of the depth and consistency of that shit and how bad an idea everything I thought would be a good idea is, Charlotte Ward actually phones the house.

She does such a good Queen of the Universe impersonation that Vivian doesn’t even try to screen her out; she just hands me the phone. And even though Lisa and Anita have spent the past three hours calling to be wildly encouraging, it is pretty clear that some people aren’t looking forward to being in the same room with me as much as others.

Council, for reasons clear only in Charlotte’s twisted mind, does not seem too eager for me to show up. But given that Billy is on Council, I am not exactly eager to give it up.

The only reason I am even on Charlotte’s damned decorating committee is because I heard Mr. Piersol’s lecture about leaving your mark on Winston School once too often and I must have been temporarily hypnotized.

And all right, it was unlikely that I was going to leave my mark by leading the charge to adopt a sister school in Botswana. So just after the image of the Slutmuffins tagging the hell out of Winston receded—their mark being giant designer logos and discarded cans of spray paint—I figured that my mark could be the permanent retirement of the vile pink, black, and silver color scheme from all school events involving crepe paper and tinsel.

And after I miraculously got the decorating committee to go along with this, I would change the name of Spring Fling to something reasonable. Something that didn’t rhyme or make Billy sneer.

I admit I had visions of walking into this reimagined, nicer dance, resting my head on Billy’s shoulder, and swaying to vintage tunes, mostly “My Blue Heaven,” while he admired the superior color scheme of the renamed event.

Unfortunately, when I raised the idea of a renamed event, the most popular alternative was Courtney Yamada Phillips’s suggestion of Spring Hop, which was kind of the same, only worse. So I went back to shutting up on Council except to support Billy when he talked, which wasn’t much. He wasn’t even on the decorating committee.

“How are you feeeeling?” Charlotte drawls into the phone, her lips so close to the receiver that her breath rasps and puffs as if she were spitting into my ear.

“I’m getting there,” I say.

“Did you get the flowers? The committee sent you peonies.

Andie says you like stuff like that, right?”

“They were nice. Thanks. I was kind of out of it.”

“I heard. Billy says you don’t want to talk about it, so that’s cool.”

“Cool,” I say. Why she would want to talk to me unless she wants me to jump out of bed and run down to Kinko’s to pick up giant boxes of dance flyers is a mystery of life.

“So. I’m calling because the committee has to meet and finalize the plans for Fling and I don’t want to stress you out or anything . . . so I was wondering how you want to play it.”

How I want to play it is to show up and explain in detail why her design choices suck and her color scheme sucks and get her voted down and then make fun of her to Billy, which is as close to addressing the extreme folly of him being with a Slutmuffin—his previous companions of choice—as I will ever get.

But abandoning fun fantasies and moving right along, I am more than happy to continue to keep my mouth shut in my role as designated Council slave as long as none of the Muffins tells Billy I suck.

And I say to myself, Hey, Gabby, look at you! You are right back into high school and your mind is working perfectly. You’ve got your game on. You can totally play this. Because: Life with the Slutmuffins really is a lot like a rank game of somewhat challenging, backstabbing Trivial Pursuit.

“What do you mean?” I say, pseudo-sweetly, noticing that it is getting harder to breathe.

“I mean, I know you must have work piling up and SATs are coming up and everything, so I don’t want you to feel like the committee is just one more thing you have to do.”

“Like an anchor around my neck?”

“Yeah, like that,” she says somewhat too eagerly.

Long pause. Long, long pause. I am mostly focused on inhaling and exhaling.

“Nope,” I say. “It’s fine. Just save me a seat and I’ll be there when I get back.”

“So, like, when’s that going to be?”

I know she knows, but I say it anyway, I say, “Tomorrow,” just to see if I can hear that little snort noise she makes. And I can. I do.

When I get off the phone with her, it’s like I’ve gone completely numb and breathing doesn’t help.

I am so not ready for this.

XLIII

WHICH IS WHEN BILLY JUST COMES OUT AND ASKS if I’m sure I can do it.

When I’m completely not sure.

And I go, You know you want this. Just be somewhat cheerful and get this over with before he figures out that you’re pathetic. Then I simulate normal as fast as I can.

pologuy: earth to g. so can u?

gabs123: can i what, go to school? i’ve been going to school since i was 3½.

pologuy: don’t get cute g

gabs123: u never complained about how cute I was before nash.

pologuy: i’ve been working on this. i can keep the guys and the andies and the muffins off ur back guaranteed but u have to stick to the plan with everybody else

And I go, Just. Stay. Cheerful.

gabs123: how hard can it be to say i don’t want to talk about something i don’t want to talk about? what r they going to say? hey gabs i saw u at that party and man were u drunk? way to drive a car into a tree?

pologuy: U HAVE TO CUT THEM OFF BEFORE IT GETS THERE. close them down. all my people know not to bother u but u have to watch out for the loose ca

He sounds seriously seriously worried.

And I’m thinking, Maybe I should be feeling more seriously worried instead of just numb.

And then I think, No, numb is probably a good thing, because if Billy Nash is freaking out, I would be dead on the ground and mainlining Glenlivet if I was actually feeling this.

And I go, Okay, Gabriella, take a deep breath and calm the hell down. Keep your eyes on the prize. If you want your life back, you have to go back there and get it. You don’t have to feel a damned thing, you just have to go.

pologuy: r u there?

gabs123: i’m here. i get it. u don’t have to worry about me so much. i can handle it. i vant to be alone, dahlink.

pologuy: yeah but nobody really vants to be alone and i can’t b with u there. r u going to be ok? can u do this?

gabs123: i get it. ur with me now and I’m fine with it. i can totally do this.

Only what if I can’t?

I would so have had a wooden nose all the way out the window and across the street if I were a magic puppet. And I say to myself: Oh Gabriella, you are such a genius relationship strategist, good breather, and all-round desirable girl, he’ll be with you in no time. At which point the Pinocchio nose extends itself further north, up toward Mulholland Drive.

pologuy: oh and u should check outside ur laundry room

gabs123: ?

pologuy: just do it

I go clomping down the stairs so fast and loud that John yells, “Be careful!” from the den, which has to be an all-time first. I plow through the dark laundry room and just outside the back door, at the edge of the redwood landing, there’s a gift bag, the understated ritzy kind with leaves woven into the thick paper of it. Inside the bag, there’s a square, gold box that’s filled with rows and rows of heart-shaped Belgian chocolates, just the dark mocha ones that I like, and not Billy’s usual little box missing the pilfered truffles. This box is entirely full of perfect candies, perfect hearts, completely perfect. And on the gold-striped paper that lines the lid, he’s written, “You’re the one.”