“No more, Ezer. No more backyard ambushes. No more secret filming without my consent—which would mean it’s not exactly secret, so yeah, no more secret filming, like I just said.” I continue to fidget and pace, wishing I was better at expressing myself, especially at moments like this.
“I think you’ll feel differently when you see the final edits.” He inspects his fingernails, acting as though he hasn’t bothered to listen to a single word I just said.
“Doubtful.” I stand before him, arms folded across my chest in an attempt to appear bigger, more authoritative, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I hear we got some nice footage of you and Tinsley. Wouldn’t you like to relive that look on her face when the snow started falling? I assume that was the whole point of the snow machines—all of it, really. Tell me, Nick, am I wrong to think you organized the whole show for Tinsley?”
I do my best to hold my own and maintain eye contact with Ezer. But everything he just said makes me feel ashamed and transparent. It’s like he has X-ray vision and can see right through me. Good thing Sparks drove Tinsley home. I’d hate for her to witness this mess.
“Tomorrow, Nick.” Ezer pushes off the couch and slaps a heavy hand on my shoulder, but I’m quick to duck from his reach, so his arm ends up falling loose to his side. He doesn’t react, doesn’t even seem to notice. He just heads for the door, saying, “Ten a.m. sharp. Don’t be late.” Like always, he gets the last word.
As soon as he’s gone, I sink onto my couch, surrounded by a giant mess that’ll stay that way until the cleaning crew arrives in the morning: overturned cups dripping Mojo onto just about every available surface, a broken lamp, turned-up rugs, rearranged furniture…I don’t know how famous people throw parties like this on a regular basis. It’s really destructive.
“For what it’s worth, I thought you handled that well.” At the sound of Plum’s voice, my heart practically leaps from my chest. I had no idea she was here. And I definitely didn’t invite her.
I turn to find her awkwardly folded into the acrylic bubble chair that hangs from the ceiling by a thick silver chain, heels resting on top of her knees like some kind of yoga pretzel, with an open book on her lap resting on top of a folded Santa hat. It seems like she has spent the better part of the night exactly like that.
Still, it’s not like I’m interested in her input, even if it is positive. Knowing this Tinsel Hills Plum, she’s just trying to soften me up so the insult that follows will have greater impact.
“Where’s Dougall?” I ask, sure he’s to blame for inviting her.
She shrugs and makes a face. “How should I know? Up until an hour ago, I was helping my mom.”
Time to hire a new personal chef. One who doesn’t come with an annoying daughter who insists on hanging around for the sole purpose of judging me.
“Ezer had no right to film you without your knowing. I mean, I don’t remember signing a waiver, do you?” She does that thing where one eyebrow goes up and the other stays put. “The second I spotted that camera, I was outta there. Which is kind of a shame, since I missed the part when it started to snow.”
I sink my head into my hands. “I’m pretty sure I signed my life over to Ezer the first day we met.” When my eyes dare to meet hers, I’m surprised to find she’s not wearing her usual hypercritical expression. She seems sincere. Maybe even concerned. Completely free of hidden agendas and ulterior motives. Like she’s somehow morphed into the opposite version of everything I’ve learned about her, reminding me of the Greentree Plum.
We sit like that for a while, no words passing between us other than the ones that come from our eyes. Then she untangles herself, shoves off the chair, and says, “Even with the cameras, as far as parties go, this one was epic.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, but the curls, just like in Greentree, spring right back in place. “Though I’m not sure you should have to go to all that trouble just to get a girl to kiss you.”
I close my eyes and groan. Apparently I’m so transparent even Plum saw right through me.
“It doesn’t have to be so complicated, Nick.” She pauses, waiting for me to acknowledge her words. “It doesn’t have to be some big grand thing. If she wants it to happen, you’ll know by the look in her eyes, the way she lingers in your space.” She slips her bag onto her shoulder, preparing to leave, but as strange as it seems, I can’t let her go. If she has a deeper perspective into these things, then I need her to share it with me so I can stop messing everything up.
“What do you know about it?” I say. Only it comes out sounding defensive and wrong, when what I really wanted to ask was what she knows about Tinsley’s willingness to kiss me—since she’s apparently so good at reading people.
“Well, for starters, I am a girl.” She folds her arms across her chest and juts one hip to the side. So sure of herself and the subject it makes me wonder who she might’ve kissed. Possibly someone like the skinny rocker dude she seemed so obsessed with in the magazine?
The thought leaves me deflated.
I’ll never understand what girls are really thinking.
Or why they do the things they do.
Say the things they say.