Before she can reach me, Blonde #2 plops onto my lap, circles her arms around my neck, and says, “Back off, Tiffany. He’s all mine.” Then she kisses me smack in the center of my cheek, leaving a sticky lip-gloss tattoo as if to prove that it’s true.
The redhead (I think her name might be Kayla, but it’s not like I’m willing to risk saying it out loud in case I’m mistaken) laughs and snaps a pic of Blonde #2 and me; then, when Blonde #1 slithers up to my side and the redhead moves in beside her, Dougall joins in and snaps a bunch of group selfies that he instantly posts.
It’s funny to think how I spent most of last year complaining about being invisible to girls, and yet now that I have four superhot girls practically fighting over me, I’m annoyed by the way they keep plucking at my hair and my clothes and telling me over and over again how cute they think I am.
Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to having girls pay me so much attention (other than Plum, but like I said, Plum doesn’t count). All I know for sure is that it leaves me feeling awkward and weird. It’s not normal behavior. Or at least, it’s not normal where I’m concerned.
I disentangle myself and head for the ball rack, determined to impress them with a skill I can actually claim in my Greentree life too. Even though I know this is all just a dream and I should try to enjoy whatever attention I get however I get it, I can’t help wanting them to admire me for who I really am, as opposed to who they think I am.
Thing is, I’m a good bowler. And by good, I mean really, really good. I’ve been bowling since I was a little kid and was considered one of the best in my league. I’ve even got the trophies to prove it. Though it’s not exactly something I’m used to advertising about myself.
Back in Greentree, Dougall and Plum are the only kids at school who know about my mad bowling skills. Mainly because none of the popular kids would be the least bit impressed. All they seem to care about is sports involving smaller, lighter balls, like football, basketball, and baseball. Not a single one of them would appreciate the fact that, in the world of bowling, I’m what’s known as an anchor. Which means I’m the one who always bowls last so I can anchor the score. But tonight I decide to shake things up and go next.
Only, as soon as I’m standing at my start line, ball poised and ready, I’m overcome by this horrible urge to faint, hurl, or both, which pretty much makes it impossible to move.
They’re all looking at me, waiting to see what I’ll do. But here in this strange dreamworld I have no way of knowing if I can still pull this off.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That even if I totally blow it and end up with a gutter ball, they’ll still act as though I did something brilliant. That’s just how it is when you’re famous. No one ever tells you like it is. But for once in my life, even if it’s just my dream life, I want to know what it’s like to have a beautiful girl, or in this case several beautiful girls, cheer for me in a way I deserve.
“Come on, Nick—you can do it!” the brunette shouts.
“You got this!” Tiffany cheers.
Dougall looks on with the same kind of skeptical face the Greentree Dougall made right before I took the stage in that unfortunate talent show.
I take a steadying breath and center my focus. I’ve got a lot riding on this moment, no matter how silly it seems.
Determined to prove my worth and prove both Dougalls wrong, I take four and a half slightly shaky steps toward the foul line, then release the ball and watch as it tears down the aisle. Ultimately crashing into the center pin so hard it not only falls but takes all the other pins with it.
And as soon as the pins are reset, I do it again.
And again.
Blowing rack after rack and scoring so many strikes the employees, including the manager, gather to watch. The girls jump up and down, shouting and cheering, and when Dougall joins in, well, it’s just the sort of validation I need to reduce that fiasco of a talent show into nothing more than a distant, hazy memory.
DECEMBER 20
4 Days, 14 Hours, 32 Minutes, and 24 Seconds till Christmas
#LAME-O
Turns out, just because one is an International Superstar with serious bank, no parental guidance, and therefore no curfew does not mean he doesn’t have to answer to a higher authority.
In my case, that higher authority is Ezer.
“What’s this?” He looms over me, shaking his phone in my face.
I squint one eye open but only so I can locate the nearest spare pillow and pull it over my head until I can no longer see him. Still, his muffled words manage to penetrate.