“Just let me know.” She flips another curl over my shoulder. “You have such gorgeous hair. What’s Oakley’s favorite thing about you?”
That he can treat me like a piece of crap and I don’t complain? Of course, I can’t say that, but I don’t have any other answer. I don’t think that guy likes anything about me. “What’s Justin’s favorite thing about you?”
“My boobs. What do you think it is?” She giggles and then drags her fingers through my heated curls.
“Nah, I’m sure it’s your killer softball pitch.” Kiki’s the starting pitcher on Thomas Jefferson High’s girls’ softball team.
“That, too.” One by one she turns my straight locks into bouncy curls. “So does Oakley like your hair or your legs or your eyes? I want to highlight whatever it is that he likes.”
I can tell she’s not giving up until I reveal something. “He likes that I’m normal.”
“Hmmm.” She ponders this for a second. “I can see that, what with you wanting to be a teacher. That’s pretty normal. Now close your eyes.” She waves the bottle of hairspray in front of me.
I do as she commands. If Oakley did like me because I wanted to be a teacher, that would just be one more topping on the metaphorical cake that I’m baking for him.
“Did you know that Justin and me did it for the first time to Oakley’s song ‘Do Her Right’?” Kiki says casually as she dabs my face with the fat end of a pink sponge shaped like an egg.
“Um, no. I did not know that.” Questions such as What’d it feel like? Was it good? burn at the tip of my tongue. Because Paisley hated it and I think she wishes she never had sex. Meanwhile, W wants me to give it up to him right now and I don’t think I can. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
“Justin can’t hear it without getting a chubby.”
We stare at each other for a full minute before cracking up. The idea of Justin, her big linebacker boyfriend, getting turned on while listening to Oakley Ford croon that he’s going to do her, do her, do her right, is so hilarious that I laugh until tears form.
“How many people know this?” I choke out as I try to catch my breath.
“Everyone,” she admits. “Apparently it came on in the locker room, I don’t know why, and Justin popped a boner. Kirk Graham was teasing him about it at lunch a week ago.”
“Maybe we can get Oakley to give you guys an in-person concert,” I joke.
Kiki giggles. “I don’t think Justin would be able to handle it.”
I wonder what Oakley would think of this story? He’d look down at it, I decide. Oakley probably only gets an erection if he’s lying on a pool of hundred dollar bills, and Victoria’s Secret models are prancing around his bed.
Kiki helps me into the tutu skirt, which is surprisingly soft for all its volume. She also has me stuff cotton balls in the back of the shoes and in the toes until they fit okay. Then we go downstairs and I practice walking from one end of the living room to the other.
“Do you mind if I wait until Oakley comes?” She perches on the recliner situated by the front window.
An invisible hand squeezes my heart as I lay eyes on my dad’s favorite chair. If he were around, I wouldn’t be dressed up like a strange ballerina waiting for a pretend date to happen. I’d be at USC with W, taking classes in...crap, I don’t know. My dad would’ve figured it out for me. Or Mom. Or both of them.
Instead, I’m lost.
“Sure,” I say dully.
Fortunately, Kiki’s so distracted by Oakley’s impending arrival she doesn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. “So what’s he like?”
“Oakley?” I ask.
“No. The mayor of LA.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course I mean Oakley.”
He’s a jerk who can’t be bothered to give me his phone number, even though we’re supposed to date for an entire year. He demanded I pay attention to him. He kept making fun of W, a guy he’s never even met. He’s incredibly egotistical. Do I like his guns? Who says that?
He also thinks he’s better than the rest of us because no normal girl could handle him. Although...when he went through the litany of crazy things his fans do, I felt he might be right.
Then there was that weird, bitter note about his father. And I caught him rubbing my hair last night. I feel like maybe I should report that to W, because Oakley and I were alone and he shouldn’t touch me when we’re alone—not even my hair, because it does strange things to my stomach.
I don’t share any of this with Kiki, because we don’t have the kind of relationship where I can tell her all of my ugly inner thoughts without fear of judgment. I don’t know if I have that relationship with anyone. So I go with, “I don’t know him yet.”
She nods sagely as if that makes complete sense to her. “It’s different when you don’t grow up with them. I sometimes feel like Justin and I know too much about each other. Is that why you broke up with W?”
“I didn’t break up with W,” I exclaim. “Is that what people are saying?”
She shoots me a glance that says I must be kidding. “You’re the one dating Oakley Ford. No way that W broke up with you.”
“But I didn’t meet Oakley until after we were broken up.” I grimace. W won’t like that. He doesn’t like to look bad in front of his friends. Hence the no cheating accusations. But this is worse. W wouldn’t want people thinking that he was thrown over for some famous guy.
“Then why did you break up? Did he cheat on you? Did he end it because you wouldn’t enroll at USC?”
Oh, crap. I don’t know what to say. When my phone rings, I answer it without even caring that it says “Blocked Caller” because at this point, I’ll take salvation via telemarketer.
“Hello?”
“Ty will pick you up at eight thirty.”
It takes a moment for Oakley’s voice to register.
“Tonight?”
“No, tomorrow morning,” he mutters sarcastically. “Yeah, tonight.”
“But...what time am I getting home?”
“Are you five?”
Any warm, fuzzy feeling that may have sprung up because he saved me from an awkward situation dies an immediate death. I turn my back to Kiki, who’s taken to staring out the window to catch her first glimpse of Oakley. “Are you always this much of a jerk?” I hiss.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
I close my eyes and pray for patience. “Where are we going?”
“Private party. Like the outfit?”
I blink in surprise. Oakley picked this out? “Not particularly.”
“Of course you don’t.”
14
HER
“I thought you said we were going to a party.” From the back seat of Oakley’s Escalade, I anxiously peer out the heavily tinted window. “What is this place?”
Tyrese, who’s behind the wheel, just stopped the SUV on an industrial street in south LA. It’s not an area I’ve been to before. I can hear the bass, but there’s no sign anywhere on the building, just a black steel door that looks kind of ominous.
Beside me, Oakley wears an annoyed expression. “It’s a club.”
“So we’re not going to a party?”