Epic Fail Read online

  That fit exactly with what I’d seen. “But that doesn’t explain why he hit you.”

  He glanced around. “That’s a longer story. Do you have a class now?”

  “Yeah.” I consulted my schedule and read, “Honors History. Kashani. Room nineteen.”

  “Kashani? Bring a magazine—you’ll be bored. Follow me.” We moved down the hallway, weaving through the crowds of kids talking and laughing. With Webster at my side, I didn’t feel as much like a lonely outsider.

  “So, does Derek have some kind of problem with you?” I asked.

  “We actually used to be pretty good friends, and then . . . I don’t know. He’s what you might call mercurial.”

  “I might—if I liked to throw around SAT words.”

  He laughed. “How about ‘moody’ then?” he suggested. “Better?”

  I nodded just as a girl in front of us bent down to tie her shoelace. We had to separate to go around her, then rejoined on the other side.

  “There’s got to be more to this story,” I said.

  “Smart girl. I’ll tell you the whole saga when we’ve got more time. And I promise to stick to words of two syllables.” He stopped in front of a door. “You said nineteen, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” But I didn’t go in right away. “Hey, do you know Chase Baldwin at all?”

  “Of course. Princess Chelsea’s big brother.”

  “What about him? What’s he like?”

  “He’s great. Everyone likes Chase. Proof? Even Derek likes him.” A pause. “The bell’s ringing,” Webster pointed out.

  “Sorry!” I said with a guilty start. “You’re going to be late for your class.”

  “Well worth it,” he said gallantly. “I’d risk a hundred tardies for the chance to chat with you again.” He shifted his bag, held out his hand. We shook. “Good-bye, Elise. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Same here,” I said, and walked into the classroom with a smile on my face.

  Chapter Four

  I was supposed to meet Juliana and Layla by the steps leading up to the parking lot as soon as school let out. I got there first and climbed partway up the stairs so I could watch everyone moving below me. I felt like a general wearily surveying the terrain of his next battle, except that I had no hope of actually winning the war that was high school.

  Within a minute or two, I spotted Juliana walking slowly toward me, Chase Baldwin at her side, the two of them talking away earnestly. They looked like they’d known each other forever.

  We’d both had our crushes and flirtations over the years, but we’d always spent more time talking to each other about the guys than actually talking to them. Our clumsy attempts at romance had ended in some extra sisterly bonding—and no actual relationships.

  But this already felt different.

  Juliana’s eyes were cast down so I don’t think she could see the way Chase was looking at her, but I could. He looked content, settled, like he belonged in the airspace next to this girl he’d met only a few hours earlier.

  She looked up, saw me, and waved. They stopped walking then, but kept talking for a few more minutes while I waited and watched, waited and watched. I felt almost jealous of Jules—not because she’d found Chase, but because here, in this new setting, where I was just trying to find my bearings and survive, she was already thriving.

  We’d always been inseparable, always been the two closest Benton sisters—buy one, get one free—and now, in addition to all the other changes of the last few months, it looked like that was going to change, too.

  Finally she broke away and came toward me.

  “Hi,” she said, a little too casually, as she joined me on the steps.

  “You’re going to be seeing him again in half an hour, you know.”

  She ignored that. “Where’s Layla? She’s late.”

  “Layla’s always late.”

  “Not always.”

  “Always,” I repeated.

  Another fifteen minutes went by before Layla finally showed.

  “You were supposed to meet us here at three thirty,” I snapped.

  “It’s right around then, isn’t it?” She glanced vaguely at her watch.

  “It’s almost four,” Juliana said.

  “Sorry. I met some girls today and we were talking and I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

  “Why are your eyes all glittery?” I asked.

  Layla reached up to touch her eyelid absently. “We were playing around with each other’s makeup.”

  “You’d better take it off before Mom sees you,” Juliana warned. We could get away with wearing a small amount of artfully applied blush and eye shadow so long as it looked fairly natural, but anything too bright was a red flag to our parents, who didn’t think their daughters should wear makeup at all.

  “I know,” Layla said. “There are wipes in the car.” She pushed me away from her. “Are you sniffing me, Elise? What are you, a dog?”

  “Have you been smoking?” I asked.

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Can we just go home, please?” She ran up the rest of the steps.

  Incredulous, I grabbed my messenger bag and dashed after her, Juliana close behind. “If Mom and Dad find out—”

  “They won’t if you don’t tell on me,” she said over her shoulder. “Anyway, it wasn’t me who was smoking. It was a couple of the other girls—their smoke got in my clothes. You can smell my breath, if you don’t believe me.”

  “You’re chewing gum! That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

  “Yeah?” she said. “And how would you know that?”

  “Give her a break, Elise,” Juliana said, catching at my arm. “If she says she wasn’t smoking, she wasn’t smoking.”

  “Thank you,” Layla said. “At least someone in the family is capable of showing some trust.” She walked on the path ahead of us, her chin high, the picture of affronted dignity.

  That was when I noticed her pockets. “No way!” I said to Juliana.

  “What?”

  I pointed. “Those are my jeans—the one new pair I own.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe they just look like yours.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, my voice tight with the kind of frustration that comes from having three sisters and a small house and never getting to keep anything to yourself. “I bought them with my own money.” I sped up. “I should tear them right off her little selfish—”

  Juliana tightened her grip on my arm. “Calm down, Elise. She shouldn’t have borrowed them without asking, but I know she was really nervous this morning. She was probably worried about being dressed right, and—”

  I flung off her hand irritably. “Why do you always defend her?”

  “Honestly?” She smiled apologetically. “Because someone has to.”

  We entered the student parking lot and walked by rows of Audis, Lexuses (Lexi?), Mercedes, and Porsches before going through the gate that separated the students’ cars from the faculty’s. The cars instantly became less fancy and more utilitarian.

  Ours stood out among the countless gray-toned and indistinguishable small Japanese cars; it was one of only a few minivans, and uniquely bright green. Mom had negotiated for it years ago through a car dealer who said he could get us a great price as long as we weren’t picky about the color.

  We weren’t picky about the color. We couldn’t afford to be.

  Layla was already tugging impatiently on the door handle. “Will you hurry up and open it already? My bag weighs a ton.”

  Juliana pulled out the keys and unlocked the van. We had driven in with Mom that morning, but she had told Juliana to take us home. Dad’s old Honda was still in his space: he’d head home when he was ready and then come back to pick up Mom whenever she was all done with meetings—which, she had pronounced, wouldn’t be until after dinner. She had a lot to do “to whip this school into shape,” she had said in the car that morning, her eyes gleaming with almost-religious fervor.

  As Layla tossed her book bag
inside the car, I came up behind her. “If you ever wear my jeans again without permission, I’ll kill you,” I said.

  She glanced down at her legs like she had never seen them before in her life. “Are these yours? I had no idea. They were in my room, so I just assumed they were mine.”

  “You are such a liar,” I said. “They were folded and in my drawer this morning.”

  “You’re obviously confused.” It was the little snarky smile on her face that drove me to the edge. I grabbed her arm—not gently.

  “I am so sick of this,” I said, shaking her. “Why do you have to be such a—” Something fell out of the pocket of her hoodie. We both bent down to grab it, but I was faster. I snatched it up and showed the open cigarette pack to Juliana. “Still think she was telling the truth?”

  “Oh, Layla,” Juliana moaned.

  “They’re not mine,” Layla said, turning to her. “I’m holding them for a friend.” Her voice got higher. “Really. I swear.”

  “Do you ever stop lying?” I thrust the pack out toward her. “They were on your—”

  A BMW convertible came roaring up to us too fast and then paused—just for a second, like the driver had tapped his brake.

  And that was when I caught a glimpse of Derek Edwards’s face through the driver’s side window, looking stunned by what he saw. . . .

  Which I realized was me, Elise Benton, standing by her parents’ huge, ugly, bright green minivan, extending an open cigarette pack to her little sister and—to all appearances—offering her a smoke for the ride.

  Derek quickly drove away. Juliana called out a feeble, “See you at the restaurant,” and then she and I looked at each other with dismay.

  Trust Layla to make me look bad. It was a talent of hers.

  Meanwhile, she was clambering happily into the car. “What restaurant?” she asked, poking her head back out.

  Juliana told her while I found a trash can to toss the cigarettes into—I didn’t want Mom or Dad to find them later—before we headed to Kaitlyn’s school.

  “Who else is going?” Layla asked. When she heard the names, she bounced up excitedly in her seat. “Whoa! Do you guys know who Derek Edwards is?”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Everyone knows. I mean, he’s in Us Weekly all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, not all the time. But once in a while. With his parents. And this girl I met today was telling me about all the famous kids who go to Coral Tree, and she said he’s far and away the most famous. I can’t believe you guys are already friends with him. That is so fucking cool!”

  “Hey, hey!” Jules said, with a glare in the rearview mirror. “Watch your language, Layla.”

  “Oh, please. You guys are such prigs. Kids here swear all the time.”

  “Well, we don’t,” Jules said. “And if Dad heard you—”

  “He won’t. I’m not an idiot.” She gave another bounce. “Melinda Anton’s son!”

  Juliana was silent. She was frowning a little and I understood why. “You want to drop us off at home first?” I asked her in a low voice. “You could go on to the restaurant by yourself.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “It might not be.”

  “It’s too late now. She’s excited. Hey, Layla?” she said, raising her voice so she could be heard in the backseat.

  “What?” Layla had pulled a mini hairbrush out of her bag and was brushing her long dark hair furiously.

  “Try to be normal around Derek, okay? Don’t bring up his parents or anything like that.”

  “Don’t worry,” Layla said. “I know how to be cool.”

  It took us a while to sign Kaitlyn out of her afterschool program, so the others were already seated at a table eating pizza by the time we got to the restaurant. Let’s just say that my idea of cool and Layla’s turned out not to be the same. Hers involved audibly whispering, “Is that him?” while pointing at Derek, and, upon confirmation, loudly announcing that his mother’s picture was on the wall and asking him, “Do they know you’re her son? Do you get free food and stuff?”

  Kaitlyn proved she was more in Layla’s camp than mine when it came to “cool,” by accidentally tossing a hot, oily garlic roll across the table, where it almost landed in Derek’s lap. Then she giggled much too loudly about it even though no one else was amused, and Chelsea, who had been near the line of fire, was shooting her venomous looks.

  By the end of the meal, two things were clear:

  1. Chase was so crazy about Jules, he didn’t seem to notice her youngest sisters were Neanderthals, and

  2. Despite Chase’s cheerfully optimistic exit line that we should all do this again soon, Derek Edwards didn’t seem likely to let himself get trapped into having a meal with the Bentons ever again.

  In the car, post–pizza debacle, Kaitlyn happily informed us that she had made a friend at school already, a girl named London, whose parents owned four houses, “if you count their apartment in France.”

  “Oh, let’s count it,” I said airily. “I assume they have a place in London, too?”

  Kaitlyn furrowed her brow. “I don’t think so.”

  Juliana and I exchanged an amused front-seat look.

  “She’s an only child, so she doesn’t have to share a room in any of their houses,” Kaitlyn added.

  Juliana said, “Don’t you think it would be lonely to have such a small family? I love having three sisters.”

  Kaitlyn twisted her mouth, clearly not sure she agreed with that. After that meal, I wasn’t sure I did, either.

  Chapter Five

  By the time Dad got home, Layla was doing her homework and I was helping Kaitlyn with hers at the wooden farm table in our kitchen—which had made a lot more sense in Amherst, where we’d lived in a former nineteenth-century barn, than here in our sixties-style ranch. Dad trudged in from the garage, shoulders hunched, looking pale and worn-out and older than his fifty-one years. My mother was always trying to get him to go for a run—she seemed to think exercise was the cure for what ailed him—but he always responded in more or less the same way, with a politely impassive look that said, And why exactly would I want to do that?

  “How’d your first day go?” I asked him after we’d greeted each other.

  “Exhausting. And a little worrisome. Take a look at this.” He dropped his overstuffed briefcase with a thud onto the linoleum floor and reached into the pocket of his cardigan, which had a big hole right near the shoulder. Great. He had stood in front of every class he taught in that sweater. Tthe man never looked in a mirror.

  He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to me. I opened it: two neat columns of names followed by phone numbers. I handed it back. “What is it?”

  “A list of all the students who came up to me today to request—make that insist—that I contact their math tutors directly. Today’s the first day of school—why on earth would these students already have tutors? It’s one thing if they start to struggle, but it’s like they don’t even trust me to teach them in the first place.”

  “I want a tutor,” Layla said. “It would make doing homework so much easier.”

  “Me too,” said Kaitlyn. “If Layla gets one, I get one.”

  “No daughter of mine will ever have a tutor,” Dad said.

  “What if we’re failing a course?” asked Layla.

  His graying eyebrows drew together. “If you fail a single course, young lady, we will pull you out of school and get you a job scrubbing toilets for the rest of your life.”

  I knew he was teasing her, but he had a scary-good deadpan and Layla’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “That’s so not fair!”

  “Then study hard and get good grades. There’s a laziness to this culture that I will not allow my children to succumb to. An intellectual laziness.” He added thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s all the sunshine—corrodes the brain.”

  “I like it here,” Layla said defiantly. “I mean, I don’t like being the new ki
d, but at least we’re finally in a real city where there’s more to do than watch the grass grow. And guess who we met today? Melinda Anton’s son!”

  Dad gazed at her for a moment, the edges of his mouth twitching. “How silly of me to worry that you might succumb to the culture. Thank you for putting my mind at ease on that score.” He picked up his briefcase and headed toward his study. “Elise, your mother said she’d be late for dinner. What do you think we should do?”

  “We kind of ate already,” I said. “Want a slice of pizza?” Chase had insisted we take the extra, since his own family was—as he put it—allergic to leftovers.

  “Do you mind bringing it to my office? I have a lot of work to get through tonight.” He left the room, heading toward what my mother referred to—with more hope than sanity—as “the maid’s room.” It had its own bathroom and hallway and was quieter than any other part of the crowded house, and my dad had instantly nabbed it for his own use when we first moved in two weeks earlier.

  I heated up a slice of pizza and brought it to his office, where he sat at his desk, absently rubbing his temples as he worked on his lesson plans. On my way upstairs, I heard Layla’s voice coming from the family room and suspected she was vidchatting.

  Up until recently, my sisters and I all had to share one computer, but Juliana and I had successfully lobbied to get our own laptops by quoting the Coral Tree Prep handbook, which said that most high school assignments were posted online. Layla tried to get in on the action, but my parents said she could wait one more year, so she was still sharing the household PC with Kaitlyn.

  We had a no-chatting-until-homework-was-done rule, so I headed in to tell her to keep it down before someone less sympathetic (i.e., Kaitlyn) told on her.

  The family room was crammed full with two large sofas, a half dozen side and coffee tables, and several rugs with clashing patterns that overlapped, creating long bumps perfect for tripping us up. We had taken all our furniture with us, and our Amherst house had been twice the size of this one. I stumbled over a rug bump on my way into the room, and Layla looked up, closing the image so I couldn’t see what she was doing.