“That’s not what I meant.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Amelia. But—and no offense—like, seriously, what do you know? You’ve kissed one guy your whole life. And I’m not sure a drunk lifeguard even counts.” She stared at me for a minute. I waited for her to remember our conversation from the Tea Lounge, the one about the relationship she’d guessed I was having. But it was like it had never even happened. It was a relief and a letdown that Sylvia had never brought it up again. “It’s kind of hard to take relationship advice from somebody who’s never been in a relationship. And texting with some freak up in Albany doesn’t count.”
“Ben’s not a freak,” I said, kind of halfheartedly.
He had been acting kind of different lately. At first, he’d been really supportive about Dylan and everything, but then he’d turned weirdly judgmental all of a sudden. He’d started talking to me like he was my big brother or something, telling me that I should watch out for Dylan because a girl like her wasn’t a girl I could count on. As if he even knew her. I’d started thinking he was kind of jealous or maybe just tired of listening to me talk about her.
“I love you, so I’m going to tell it to you straight,” Sylvia said. “Ben is definitely a freak. Any guy who just wants to talk to some girl all the time is a freak.”
“Ben’s gay, Sylvia,” I said. “I’ve told you that, like, a million times. And I’m his friend. I don’t know why you don’t believe me.”
“Right, sure. Because you can totally believe everything some guy you’ve never met says. For all you know, he’s not even a guy. And even if everything he’s told you is true, somebody who spends more time on their computer than with real live people is weird, period.”
“Whatever.” I shrugged.
But maybe Sylvia was right. Maybe I should ratchet things down with Ben for a while. Between Sylvia and Dylan I had enough to juggle without worrying about what was going on with him. I’d been thinking a lot about telling Sylvia about Dylan, too. It was too much pressure keeping that a secret on top of the Magpies. I didn’t think Sylvia would be that freaked-out about the girl part either. She’d be surprised, sure. I was still surprised. Sometimes I still wasn’t even 100 percent sure it was true. There was a chance she’d be mad I hadn’t told her about Dylan sooner—not that I really could have when I was still figuring it out myself—but she was definitely going to be way more pissed off about the Maggies.
But what if I was wrong? What if Sylvia did care about the me-with-a-girl thing? I mean, we had been naked together, like, hundreds of times. We’d shared a bed almost as often. Sylvia had shown me how a tampon worked. And had explained—with diagrams—what it was like when a guy went down on you. We’d shared all our secrets up until now. What if nothing was ever the same after I told her?
“Ms. Golde?” someone called from across the courtyard before I could work myself up to opening my mouth about Dylan. When we looked up, there was spooky Dr. Lipton, the school counselor. With her pale skin and high-collared black dress, she looked, as usual, like a vampire. “We had an appointment. Ms. Golde.”
“Oh, craptastic,” Sylvia said, loud enough for Dr. Lipton to hear.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
Sylvia had had some problems at the end of freshman year. Her mom had caught her cutting herself a couple of times. It wasn’t as big a deal as it sounded, at least according to Sylvia. But her mom totally lost it. She sent Sylvia to, like, ten different therapists all at the same time and had Dr. Lipton’s head permanently implanted way up Sylvia’s butt. So far, this year, Sylvia had been totally fine. At least, as far as I knew.
“Nothing happened,” Sylvia said. “My mom’s being a bitch. Same old.”
“Sylvia, seriously. Are you sure you’re okay?” I did feel bad that I’d kind of missed the whole boat on the cutting thing the first time around. I wasn’t going to let that happen again. “I mean, with all this stuff with Ian and everything.”
“Jesus, yes. You people,” Sylvia hissed, then sauntered off toward Dr. Lipton. “For somebody having an affair with a pretend gay kid, I think you should be a little more worried about yourself and a little less worried about me.”
It was great for me that Dr. Lipton had turned up because I’d had no idea how I was going to ditch Sylvia in time to get back to my house in time for the “photog.” I still wanted to bag out of the stupid game, but I hadn’t figured out a way to do it without maybe offending Dylan. And things were going so well with her, I didn’t want to screw it up.
I headed back inside along with the wave of people coming back from lunch, then made a hard right through the atrium toward the side door. I’d learned from the Maggies that the fire stairs were the best way to duck out of school. On that side there were no administration offices and no classrooms. I’d slipped out in the middle of the day that way at least five times now, no problem. It was a left, then another left, and through a set of doors to the staircase and then—
“Oh hi,” Liv said, slamming her laptop closed.
She was hunched over it on the steps. From the look on her face, I’d have thought I busted her surfing porn. I felt busted, too. For a second, I even thought about diving back the way I’d come, but it was too late. And I couldn’t think of anything I could have been doing that would have put me out in that stairwell, except sneaking out.
“Hi,” I said, still hoping that a good excuse for being out there was going to come to me.
“So we’re both kind of busted, huh?” Liv said, reading my mind. She looked pretty, as usual, in a fluttery blouse and big, chunky necklace. “I’m supposed to be at a faculty meeting, and you’ve caught me hiding out here instead, working on a story.”
“What’s it about?” I asked. Talking about Liv’s story was a better option than explaining what I was doing there.
“What’s what about?” Now Liv was the one acting weird.
“The, um, story?”
“Oh you know, a boy, a girl, tragedy ensues. It’s a work in progress,” she said, smiling. “And speaking of stories, Amelia, I’m glad I ran into you. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“You look nervous. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad, it’s . . . I ended up submitting your story to that fellowship.”
“What?” I’d told her I didn’t want to apply. What kind of teacher did that?
“I know, I took the risk and overruled you, and I’ve been feeling guilty ever since.” She shook her head. “I think you’re such a talented storyteller, and I was trying to support you. But just because I’d personally like a creative writing fellowship doesn’t mean you do. I think I’ve been so wrapped up with my own frustrations in getting work published that I . . . Anyway, it wasn’t my place to make that decision for you, and I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
I stared down at my shoes feeling weirdly exposed and kind of mad, until it occurred to me that I was looking at this all wrong. It was annoying that Liv had done that, but if she felt bad about the fellowship, I could maybe use it to my advantage to get out of that side door and home in time.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I said. “But I do kind of have to go. I have an, um, dentist appointment. And my mom forgot to write me a note, and so—”
“Oh,” Liv said quietly. I couldn’t tell if she believed me. Actually, I could kind of tell she didn’t. “The dentist, huh?”
“I have a cavity.”
She nodded slowly, biting down on her lower lip.
“Then we’ll call it even for now.” She smiled. “You go to the dentist and I won’t say anything, if you promise to forgive me for sending your story. And also not tell anyone I skipped out on a faculty meeting to work on a story.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, pushing open the door. When I turned back, I felt good, safe. Looked after. “Thanks, Liv.”
I ran through the side yard and away from the school without looking back. From there, I jetted down Prospect Park West toward First Str
eet, sure at any second that Mrs. Pearl or somebody was going to yell out my name. As I rounded the corner, I looked back over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. I was turning around when something cracked against my forehead and sent me bouncing back.
“Ouch!” I shouted.
“Oh, my bad,” came a voice. “You all right, luv?”
My head was vibrating when I looked up.
“I am such a prat,” Ian Greene said. “I shouldn’t have been texting and walking. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m okay,” I said, even though my eye was killing me. I must have collided with his shoulder or something. “Don’t worry about it. And I’m actually kind of late, so . . .”
I started to step around him, trying to navigate with my one good eye.
“Yes, well,” he said, “I believe I might be the one you’re late for.”
Ian held up his camera kind of bashfully.
“It’s apparently one of my hazing responsibilities.” He shrugged sheepishly. “To be honest, this whole business has made me regret getting involved with this club nonsense in the first place. Perhaps Sylvia was right. They are quite mad.”
Ian being a great photographer was obviously not the reason Zadie had sent him to take the photographs. Zadie was trying to create problems between Sylvia and me. Or, who knows, maybe Sylvia and Ian.
“Yeah, the stuff with the clubs can get kind of crazy,” I said. I sounded awkward and nervous and guilty. It was one thing for me to keep from Sylvia what I did with the Maggies, but for any of those secrets to include Ian? But so far my guilt wasn’t driving me to call the whole thing off. I was still more worried about Dylan, and myself. “Do you even know what the pictures are supposed to be like? They didn’t tell us anything.”
“Well, to add to the cloak-and-dagger nonsense,” Ian said, “they’ve sent me here with a sealed envelope, which apparently contains the instructions for this little photo shoot. I’m not supposed to open it until you and I are alone inside.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Now this was officially getting stupid. And the longer I let it go, the further I was sliding into Zadie’s trap. But what choice did I have? Zadie was probably betting I’d call off the photo shoot. That was probably the whole point. It would finally give her a reason to throw me out of the Maggies and away from Dylan. I took a deep breath.
“Okay, well, I guess we should get to my house then,” I said. “Before someone sees us standing here or whatever.”
Ian smiled. He looked relieved to be moving on, too. He rolled out an arm and bowed his head like nobility. “After you, madam.”
When we were inside, I dropped my bags on the living room couch.
“You can hang out down here or whatever,” I said. “I’m just going to run upstairs and change my clothes.”
I figured I should at least make an effort to look halfway decent. Dylan would be seeing the pictures.
“Shall we check out our marching orders first?”
“Oh right, sure. Do the honors.”
Ian ripped open the envelope. “Check out Birds of a Feather blog,” he read. “Take same kind of pictures.” He looked up at me, forehead creased. “A treasure hunt. Lovely. Got a computer?”
I led Ian upstairs to my bedroom, which was a lot messier than I’d remembered leaving it. I hoped it hadn’t been that gross when Dylan was over the night before. I stepped over a pile of clothes and sat down at my computer and started combing through the many search results for a Birds of a Feather blog. Finally, I clicked on one and a picture of Heather popped up next to the name Honey Baxter. It was just a shot of her face. There was a small paragraph next to the photo, which included her home city (New York), her age (a lie that she was eighteen), and one sentence about her “likes” (chocolate) and “dislikes” (losers).
And then I clicked on the photo, which led me to several more shots. In the first, Heather was in a lace push-up bra and matching panties, bent over, legs spread. The next was her leaning in, hands on her boobs and another with a finger hooked in her mouth. There were twelve pictures, all of them pretty much the same: porn.
“Holy crap,” I said.
“Yes, crap indeed,” Ian said, his eyes wide.
Once I’d found my way back to the blog’s home page, I could see that there was a page of photos for every girl in the Maggies, with pretty much the same kinds of pictures. They’d each been “liked” by hundreds, sometimes thousands of people. Zadie had the most “likes.” I clicked on one picture of her, and several others flashed up on the screen. They were especially flattering, I had to give her credit for that. Black-and-white, with shadowy, dramatic lighting, they were almost artistic. And Zadie looked to be completely naked in each one, covered only by her hands, a scarf, a shadow.
“What’s the point of all this?” Ian asked.
At least he hadn’t seemed particularly interested in the photos of Zadie. I took it as a sign, proof even, that nothing had happened between them.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t know they were doing . . . well, nothing like this.”
“What’ll they do to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you say no?” he asked, then his brow furrowed even deeper. “Because you cannot possibly be contemplating participating in this nonsense.”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? I’d assume you’d be uncomfortable with this kind of thing. I mean, given your situation.”
“Situation?”
“Just that you’re a . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, more modest than some of these other girls. Quite honestly, I mean that as a compliment.”
Sylvia had told Ian Greene I was a virgin. Ugh, it was beyond humiliating. Not to mention, not even true anymore.
I turned away from Ian and looked back at the computer screen. I held my breath as I clicked on Dylan’s profile. She was beautiful in the shots, of course. But there was something else, too, that made them stand out. A sadness, which made them hard to look at, and impossible to turn away from. She didn’t want to be playing the game any more than I did. It was Zadie who’d made her do it.
“You headed back to school?” Ian asked. He was gathering up his stuff. “Personally, I haven’t worked out how to get back in without anyone noticing. Perhaps you could lend a hand.”
As he moved toward the door with his big camera in his hand, I felt something slipping through my fingers. Uptight, uptight Crazy Eyes. Even if Zadie didn’t throw me out of the Maggies—a big if—Dylan might feel judged if I didn’t post my pictures, too. What if she didn’t want to be with me anymore because of it?
“Wait,” I said when Ian was almost at my bedroom door. He paused but didn’t turn around. “I want to do it.”
He turned around slowly.
“You don’t need these girls, Amelia,” he said quietly. He looked disappointed. “Sylvia is right. It’s all bollocks, this rubbish with the clubs.”
I shrugged. “I’m not doing it for them.”
“And what about Sylvia?” he asked. “I don’t expect she’d be chuffed about me seeing her best pal in her knickers.”
“Hmm, yeah,” I said, considering. He was, of course, right. “She already thinks you’re cheating on her, too. You know that, right?”
“Yes.” Ian Greene nodded, holding my stare. “I know.”
Not: No way! or Isn’t that absurd! Just: I know. He might as well have told me whom he was sleeping with. But it wasn’t Zadie. I felt sure of that after seeing his uninterest in her photos, unless he was uninterested because he’d already seen the real thing. But Ian Greene had to have better taste than that. Zadie was so obvious.
Why, oh why, had I even said that to him? It was bad enough that I’d known Ian was in Wolf’s Gate, now I knew something about him—at least maybe—that I really did not want to know. I’d just been so sure he wasn’t actually cheating on Sylvia that it ha
d seemed such a harmless thing to say. I’d figured he and I would have a good laugh about how silly Sylvia was. And that would be that. I’d never thought in a million years that he’d basically confirm it.
It was one more reason to call off the whole nonsense with the pictures. Except with each passing minute, I felt more like I couldn’t. None of the reasons I needed to do it had changed.
“Sylvia won’t care about you taking the pictures,” I said. My biggest lie yet. She would definitely care if she found out. I was just banking on the fact that she never would. “I’m gay, Ian. I don’t even like guys.”
Gay. I felt a little light-headed. It was the first time I’d said it out loud, to anyone. Even Dylan and I—we were doing what we were doing, but we didn’t talk about it. Not that way.
“Oh,” Ian pulled his head back a little, then smiled kind of awkwardly. “Right. I mean, good. Great for you.”
And there it was, out in the world. I’d told someone—Ian Greene no less—and the world had not fallen apart. My head had not exploded, and Ian had not disappeared in a puff of smoke. It was amazing. I felt like I could fly.
“Sylvia doesn’t know yet, so please don’t tell her.” Who knows, maybe she really wouldn’t care about the pictures once she knew I was gay. It was possible. “I’m planning to tell her myself as soon as I find the right time.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
“Please, Ian, I need to do this,” I said, trying to push Sylvia as far out of my head as I could. Because not only was I doing this thing with Sylvia’s boyfriend, I was also asking him to lie to her about it. But if the situation were reversed, Sylvia probably would have done the same to me. She would do anything she had to, to keep a boy she really cared about. That didn’t make it right, but it did make it feel a little less wrong. “And I can’t without your help.”
Ian took a deep breath and exhaled with puffed-up cheeks, then shook his head as he stared at the carpet. Apparently, even Ian the philanderer had a line he didn’t much want to cross.
“Okay,” he said finally. Not that he looked happy about it. “But you owe me.”