I have no fans. I have...girls who went crazy after Oakley Tweeted from his account that next time he’d remember to feed me.
If I could tell those girls the truth—that Oakley is a condescending jerk who thinks that normal girls can’t handle a guy like him because we’d be too jealous or impatient or unsympathetic—they’d move on to crushing on someone else.
One of them is already calling W hot. I had to force myself to delete a response that told the girl to keep her grubby mitts off my boyfriend. Because I’m not supposed to have a boyfriend.
I settled for Tweeting back responses like “I don’t know what’s happening, either” and “This is all new to me.”
Paisley called at noon to tell me how happy Claudia was with my performance. That put me in a bad mood, which this fancy box with its set of interlocking embossed GGs on the top only worsens.
I’m kind of scared to open it. The most designer thing I own is one of my mom’s Coach purses. Until a few days ago, I was a waitress at Sharkey’s, serving steaks in borrowed polyester black pants that are too tight and a white button-down shirt that’s too big.
I flip the lid over the card again to make sure it’s got my name on it. It does. The envelope is addressed to Vaughn in beautiful calligraphy. The card says, “Wear this tonight.”
The bow comes undone with one tug and I lift the top of the box off. Inside, under a layer of tissue paper is...it’s a shirt...I guess. I hold it up and can pretty much see through the lace fabric to the back door. Underneath it is a short black skirt and sky-high pumps.
My stomach sinks. So our third date must be in public.
Since I’m not allowed to have direct contact with Claudia, I text my sister.
Where am I going tonight?
There’s no response. She must be in a meeting.
I carry the items upstairs and lay the two pieces of clothing on the bed. I slip the shoes on and they’re weirdly too big and too small at the same time. My toes are squished into the pointy toes, but there’s a gap between my heel and the back of the shoe. Plus, they’re so high I feel like I’m tipping forward. The only thing keeping them on my feet is the wide cuff around the ankle.
I try to maneuver around the bedroom, but my ankles feel unstable and strange. I look about as sexy as a horse.
I try on the rest of the outfit—what little of it there is. The shirt is just as sheer as I’d feared, with lace flowers placed around a few strategic places in front. The rest is a see-through mesh. I hate it. It’s probably the most expensive thing that’s ever touched my skin, but I hate it.
I pull on the skirt and then look at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. I look like...an awkward reject from a Nutcracker casting call.
If I’m going to have my picture taken tonight—which I assume is the purpose of this public date and my specially couriered outfit—then I need some help. Carrie might be my closest friend, but Kiki is the one who does everyone’s hair and makeup at sleepovers.
Kiki, when you’re done with class, can u come over?
She texts back immediately.
Will Oakley Ford be there?
No. I’m supposed to see him tonight. He sent me this.
I take a picture of myself, arm across my boobs because the appliqued flowers are not big enough.
OMG! Is that Gucci?
Yeah, but u can c my boobs thru the shirt. I can’t go out like this.
Oakley Ford sent u a sxy outfit from Gucci?
Can u come ovr or not?
YYYYYYY!
Kiki must break several traffic laws, because she shows up thirty minutes after school lets out.
“Hey, girl,” she squeals when I open the door. “Is he here?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay,” she says with obvious disappointment, but she rallies immediately, lifting her backpack. “I brought my stuff. How much time do we have?”
I pull her inside. “The twins won’t be home for another forty-five. Paisley doesn’t come home until six. Sometimes seven or eight, depending on what kind of work they have for her. Why? Do you need to be someplace?”
Kiki laughs and trots up the stairs. “Not until your fam gets home, Vaughn. When are you going out?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Her eyes widen. Not in dismay, but excitement. “This is so amazing! It’s a mystery date. He sends you clothes and then picks you up and whisks you off to someplace wild. God, I wish Justin could be more spontaneous. His idea of a date these days is to drive me over to Colin’s house so the two of them can go over their fantasy lineup for the weekend. And the last thing he bought me was a grande mocha at Starbucks.”
I bite my lip because I want to tell her that that’s a hundred times better than my fake date with Oakley last night. I settle for, “Justin’s not so bad.”
She snorts. “He’s no Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.”
We reach my room, where Kiki inspects the clothes Claudia sent.
“I don’t think I can wear these,” I admit.
“Why not?” She studies the shirt and then the skirt. The shoes with the ankle cuff and buckle get the most attention. I think I see a spot of drool on the side of her mouth.
“It’s see-through and I’m not comfortable with a bunch of fancy famous people looking at my nips.”
“How about a black tank?”
The only thing Kiki and I manage to find that’s remotely acceptable is an American Eagle bralette. All my tanks are the athletic kind and even I can tell that’s not going to work under the mesh and delicate embroidery.
Kiki makes me put the bra and shirt on and then sets out to put my hair in curlers.
“Do you have a look you want me to copy or should I just do what I think is best?”
“Just do whatever.”
“Goodie. I’m going to go with big loose curls, a smoky eye and then a mauve lip. How do you feel about fake eyelashes?”
“I tried to wear them to prom last year and found them on W’s shoulder at the after-party.”
She laughs. “We’re gonna skip those.”
“Good call.”
I watch as Kiki expertly sections off my hair and starts curling it. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s known she’s wanted to do hair and makeup. After graduation, she plans to attend the Aveda Institute.
Justin, her boyfriend, is going to UCLA, majoring in accounting.
Tracy feeds into the blonde stereotype—no matter how many times we explain to her that the sun is a star and we orbit around the star, she doesn’t believe us because we can’t see the sun at night, and stars are visible at night. But even Tracy knows what she’s doing after graduation. She’s going to USC to study to be a fashion buyer.
I’m the one who graduated early. Everyone assumes it’s because I know exactly what I want to do, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
I shift uncomfortably in the chair.
“Did I hurt you?” Kiki peers into the mirror with a worried expression.
“No. Sorry.”