“Anyway, bro—speaking of greatness, what do you say we head over to Jonah’s party and see if the girls really did honor the luau theme?”
I’m a little miffed by the laughing, but ultimately I decide to let it go. After all, it must be hard for Dougall to hang out with me sometimes, with everyone always screaming my name and not his. I just hope no one at the party asks for my autograph. My hands are maxed out for the night.
HULA GIRLS
“What about us?” I ask. “Are we expected to honor the theme?” We’re on our way to Jonah’s party, and I’m getting kind of nervous. Dealing with fans is one thing—they’re pretty much thrilled with whatever you do. But dealing with celebrities is a whole lot trickier. Or at least I imagine it is—it’s not like I know from experience.
“No worries. It’s handled.” Dougall reaches into a bag by his feet, only to unearth the two most hideous Hawaiian shirts I’ve ever seen. One red, one blue, but both of them covered with similar images of hula girls, flowers, surfboards, rainbows, and dolphins wearing sunglasses. “I picked ’em up while you were signing at the Nike store. And don’t worry, they’re supposed to be ugly—it’s kind of the point. We’re being ironic.”
I button the shirt over the T-shirt I’m already wearing so that if Dougall’s wrong and it turns out to be not ironic at all but mortally embarrassing, I’ll be able to whip it right off and pretend it never happened.
“Figured we didn’t want to go overboard with the theme, since it’s better to think of this as the starter party. You never know where it might lead.”
We’ve barely climbed out of the limo when I motion toward a pretty girl wearing a grass skirt and pink bikini top just a few feet away. “Dude, is that—” I start to say, but before I can finish, Dougall is yanking on my sleeve and pulling me toward the limo.
“Change of plans.” He gestures frantically at Sparks, whistling loudly for him to return. Kind of like you would for a dog, which makes me feel embarrassed for all of us. “Trust me,” he says. “You definitely do not want to go there.” He glances over his shoulder and shoots me a serious look that has me more curious than concerned. “You need to steer clear. Ever since you dumped her for her now-former best friend, she’s been gunning for you. Just because you have selective amnesia doesn’t mean she does.”
As hard as it is to imagine a world where that could be true, apparently Dougall is right. The second she sees me, her eyes go all squinty and her mouth gets pinched, and after whispering something to the girl beside her, she marches straight toward me just as Dougall opens the limo door and shoves me inside.
“Thanks for having my back.” I peer through the tinted window, disappointed to find she’s given up the chase and settled for scowling instead. I was hoping to experience what it’s like to be the perpetrator of a big romantic drama—or any drama involving an angry girl who isn’t my sister.
“That’s what I’m here for.” Dougall settles in beside me. “Think of me as your best bro?slash?social director.”
I stare at him, more than a little stunned by his words. That’s exactly the kind of friend I’ve always wanted—exactly the kind of friend I wanted the Greentree Dougall to be. Someone who truly understands the value of popularity and exactly what it takes to maintain it.
“So what do we do now?” I peer through the back window, watching as crowds of people head for the house, sorry to be missing out on my first big celebrity bash. Though it’s probably best to let Dougall take the lead. He seems to know his way around these things so much better than me.
“Whatever we want.” He sprawls along the bench seat. “Sky’s the limit. Seriously, when was the last time anyone said no to the ‘Dashing Nick Dashaway,’ as the tabloids call you?”
“Um, how about a few hours ago, when Plum Bailey said I was a sellout?”
At the mere mention of her name, Dougall’s face softens. “Yeah, well, that’s the great thing about Plum. She’s special. She’s not like the other girls who hang around your house. For one thing, she doesn’t even like hanging around your house. For another, she’s impossible to impress. That’s what I love about her. She’s so…”
While Dougall’s busy singing Plum’s (apparently numerous) praises, Sparks brakes for a handful of girls who look like supermodels—the kind you see wearing angel’s wings in Victoria’s Secret commercials—heading straight for the limo.
“Nick, you in there?” One of them taps on the glass and peers inside.
I look to Dougall, unsure what to do. I narrowly escaped one angry ex, and for all I know she could be another. When he nods his approval, I lower the window.
“I thought I recognized your ride. Not many limos out there with your name on the license plate.”