Sealed With a Kiss Page 4

  But I wasn’t convinced. Being yourself when you were hoping to make a friend or two to sit with at lunch was one thing, but when it came to crushes? That was a lot more complicated. “Okay, but there’s another thing I need advice about.”

  “Ask away,” he said.

  I started at the beginning and told him about the three-crush rule, and Beatrice’s reaction to my announcement about Blair.

  “Oh, that’s an easy one,” he said when I was done.

  I picked up my pen again in case the advice he gave about this part was actually useful.

  “True friends never judge you for your likes or dislikes,” he said. “They accept all of you.”

  Huh. Now that was advice! I liked that so much that I wrote it in the notebook in all caps. It was true—Beatrice ate sardine sandwiches every day, which not only (a) smelled but which (b) I personally thought were completely disgusting, and I still (c) sat with her at lunch and (d) wanted to be her BFF.

  “Ooh—that’s good,” agreed Laurel. “Do you think it would be okay if I mentioned it to the head writer to see if he can use it in an episode of Madison? I think it could be good for one of the ‘very special’ ones.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Pete replied.

  Just then Laurel’s phone rang. “It’s Howard,” she said, looking at the screen. Howard was her agent. “Omigod—I wonder if it’s about the Austin Mackenzie movie!” she gasped as she ran over into the corner to take the call. The week before, Laurel had auditioned for a part starring with Austin in this big film called Twilight Under the Dark of the Moon, about a girl who is part-witch who falls for a boy who is part-vampire. It was kind of a Romeo and Juliet–type thing, because obviously their families weren’t happy about it because of the difference in species. Laurel said the script was really good. After a minute, she hung up and shrieked and did her little happy dance (which, if the paparazzi ever got a picture of, the headline would probably say “Laurel Moses Has Epilepsy!” which is this disease where you have seizures), so I figured it was good news.

  “I got the lead!” she yelled.

  “That’s awesome!” I yelled back. This was a huge break for her because it would show her in a different, non–America’s Sweetheart light. At least that’s what Alan had said to Mom a few nights before when I was overlistening.

  Suddenly she stopped and turned white. “Wait a minute. Lucy, do you know what this means?”

  “You get to go to L.A. and have your own trailer and eat whatever you want from the craft services truck?” I replied. According to Laurel, craft services was this place that had tons of different kinds of snacks—cookies, chips, fruit, vegetables, gum, lollipops—and you could take as much as you wanted. For free.

  “No. I have to kiss Austin Mackenzie.”

  Oh no! I gasped. I had forgotten about that part. There was a lot about Laurel’s life that I wouldn’t have minded having (like, say, her hair). But having your first kiss on-screen for the entire world to see? With the boy you had a triple crush on?

  That part, not so much.

  chapter 3

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  I’m still getting used to my new iTouch (Alan just bought it for me! Those IBS sessions really DO work!)—whicch is why there wil probably be typose but I need to practice. I don’t know whyy it’s so much harder on this than on Mom’s iPhone but it iss. Anway so tonight at dinner

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  Sorry about that—I endded up pushing Send by mistake before I was done. If you have an iPhone or an iTouch, you probably know that the buttons are REALLYY sensitive. Anyway, so what I wanted to tell you is that at dinner Alan announced that we would be having an EP-MFM (Emergency Parker-Moses Family Meeting)

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  Sorry again. Okay, I’m going to stop for now because this is REALLY annoyng so I’ll just e-mail you later from the computer.

  yours truly,

  LUCY B. PARKER

  sent from my iPod Touch

  The last time Alan had called an EP-MFM, it was to give us a demonstration of the remote control for the new TV, so when he announced during the “Announcements” part of dinner on Wednesday night that we would be having an emergency meeting at breakfast the next day, I wasn’t too concerned. I did, however, ask why, if it was an emergency, we weren’t just having the meeting right then, but because Alan is really big on sticking to schedules, he said that emergency meetings should be held outside of family dinners. The whole thing was so logical that it didn’t make sense to me, so I just let it go.

  “Can you just give me a hint of what the emergency is?” I asked Mom as she helped me change the sheets before I went to sleep that night. As I was getting into bed, I had noticed a tiny red mark on the bottom one and started freaking out that I had FINALLY gotten my period the night before and hadn’t even known it. (Why the blood went directly to the sheet rather than onto the pad I was wearing was a little confusing, but apparently that’s what had happened.) I ran into the kitchen where Mom was reading this book called How to Blend a Family Without Overstirring It and dragged her into my room to see it, and we found an uncapped red pen in the bed, which (a) explained the red mark, (b) made Mom really mad because they were brand-new lilac sheets to match my recently painted purple walls, and (c) made her even MORE mad when we looked closer and found a bunch more red marks, which meant that the sheets were completely ruined.

  “It’s not really an emergency,” Mom said, making what she called hospital corners with the sheets on her side. I just shoved my side of the sheet under the mattress. I was still mad at her about the other night (not to mention bummed that I hadn’t gotten my period) but had asked her for help because (a) the sheets were too high up in the linen closet for me to reach and (b) she was a lot better at making beds because she had had more experience. “It’s more like a . . . surprise.”

  “Then why did he say it was an emergency?”

  “Because I told him we already had too many different kinds of meetings to keep track of,” she replied. The other day when I was overlistening, I heard her tell Deanna that apparently love was blind and deaf, or else there was no other way to explain how she could put up with someone like Alan, who was so neurotic. Neurotic was a word you heard a lot in New York, and basically it meant “annoyingly crazy.” According to Pete, about 99 percent of the people who lived in our building were neurotic. (Thankfully, according to him, I was part of the one percent that was not.)

  I stopped stuffing the sheets under the mattress. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” I asked. If Mom was pregnant, that would not be good. In fact, it would pretty much be the most awful thing that could happen in my life: because (a) I already had a brother or sister coming, and (b) Mom was so old, she probably had to go on drugs to get pregnant and would therefore end up having triplets like Mrs. Walker in 8F. If that was the case, I was definitely moving back to Northampton to live with Dad even though (c) I’d have to sleep on the sofa bed because there wouldn’t be a bedroom for me, and (d) I really loved the color of my new walls. And there was no way I was spending my entire teenagehood babysitting three kids at once instead of just one. Especially when I probably wouldn’t even get paid for it because they were related to me. I squinted at her belly. It was looking a little more poochy than normal.

  “God, no!” she said. She patted her stomach. “This store is closed for business.” She stopped with the hospital corners and squinted at me. “Lucy, are you wearing your bra underneath your pajama top?”

  I nodded.

  She squinted even more. “Is that your old bra? The one that doesn’t fit you anymore?”

  I nodded again.

  “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Because Marissa e-mailed me last week to say she heard that your boobs grow the most at night and that if they’re bound up tight, they won’t grow as much. Or as fast,” I replied.

  She just shook her head and sighed and gave me one of her okay-that’s-so-ridiculous-I’m-not-even-going-t
o-respond looks. Luckily, she didn’t tell me to take it off.

  I have to say, the next morning when I checked them out in the shower, I could have sworn they had shrunk a bit. I was so happy that for once in her life Marissa had actually been right about something (she sure hadn’t been right when she said that putting a teaspoon of olive oil on your hair in the shower helped it grow—all it did was make mine incredibly greasy) that when the four of us sat down at the dining room table the next morning and Alan said, “Girls, we have a surprise for you,” I was actually excited to hear what it was.

  “We’re getting a new kitten?” I asked excitedly. I glanced over at Miss Piggy. I swear she gave me a dirty look.

  “Nope,” Alan said.

  “You’re pregnant?” Laurel asked, worried.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Mom asked. She patted her belly. “Do I really need to start going to the gym that bad?” She sighed. “Anyway, the answer is no—I’m not pregnant.”

  “So what is it?” Laurel asked.

  “Well, now that you have your dates for the movie—” Alan started to say.

  “—we thought that it would be nice for Lucy to go out there for a week!” Mom finished.

  I tried not to roll my eyes, but this finishing-each-other’s-sentences thing that they had recently started doing was a bit nauseating. Next thing you knew they’d be wearing matching velour jogging suits like the Pearlstines in 6B.

  Laurel and I looked at each other. “You mean all of us go out there?” I asked. “Like on a family vacation even though we’re not officially a family yet?” Although Mom kept saying there was no rush for them to get married, I just wished they’d make it official already because this almost-my-stepfather-and-stepsister-but-not-quite-yet stuff took a long time to explain to people. In fact, in order to save time, the other day I had decided that I was just going to start calling Laurel my “frister,” which was a combination of sister and friend.

  “No. Just the two of you!” Alan said. “It’ll be like—”

  “—your first real semi-grown-up vacation!” Mom exclaimed. “Isn’t that exciting?!”

  Exciting? Um, no. It was more like my mother dumping me yet again. When she and Dad were married, they never went on long vacations without me. Maybe a weekend away here and there, but never an entire week.

  “Not to mention it will be a fantastic way for the two of you girls to bond even more!” Alan added.

  I looked over at Laurel. Because she was an actress, she had what Dad called a “really good poker face,” which meant it was next to impossible to know what she was thinking. Unless the conversation was about Austin Mackenzie—then she got this dreamy look on her face. “But why aren’t you coming?” I asked.

  Mom and Alan looked at each other. “Well, you see, uh,” she began nervously.

  “An old college friend of mine has an apartment in Rome that he offered to let us use—” Alan went on.

  “So, basically, you guys want to go away alone so you can—” I almost said “do it,” which is what Marissa said was the number one reason why adults left their kids and went away, but thankfully I stopped myself.

  “—have your own bonding time,” Laurel finished.

  “That’s exactly right!” Mom said, relieved. “Laurel, I can’t get over how perceptive you are!” She turned to Alan. “Has she always been this way?”

  I rolled my eyes. Oh sure—let’s gush all over Laurel. Go ahead and just ignore Lucy some more.

  “So what do you think, Lucy? Are you excited?” Alan asked. “Your mom says you’ve always wanted to go to California.”

  Well, yeah—I did. But I wanted to go as me, Lucy B. Parker, with my family—not as the tagalong little frister of a ginormous star. Yes, Alan’s weird IBS sessions were working somewhat. But a few hours at the movies or a clothing store was totally different than seven days alone in a hotel room with someone, no matter how big the room was (which, in Laurel’s case, because she was such a big star, probably meant the size of most people’s apartments). Plus, there was the whole no-adults-around thing. Right now, Laurel wasn’t like Marissa’s sister, where every other line out of her mouth was “Because I’m older—that’s why,” but what if she became that person because Mom and Alan weren’t around to referee?

  “When would it be?” I asked.

  “Well, in looking at Laurel’s shooting schedule, and the flights to Italy, if you were okay with it, we were thinking that maybe you’d miss the last week of school,” Mom said.

  Huh. So I’d get to start my summer vacation a week early? That part made it a little more interesting. In fact, it was pretty awesome. Usually, I looked forward to the end-of-the-year parties, but when you’re still considered the New Girl, have only two real friends, and the most popular girl in school calls you “Period Girl,” you don’t wake up dying to go to school every day.

  “Can I order room service?” I asked. Mom barely ever let me order room service because she said they charged you almost double for what you paid in their hotel restaurant.

  Alan laughed. “Yes, you can order room service.”

  This was getting better. “And do we get to fly first class?” Whenever Laurel flew for work, it was always first class.

  Alan nodded. “Yup. And you get to stay in a suite at Shutters on the Beach.”

  “Oh, I love Shutters!” Laurel cried. She turned to me. “It’s literally on the beach. Wow—I’ve never actually had a friend with me when I was working,” she said. “That would make it so much less boring . . . and less lonely.” According to Laurel, when you were making a movie, most of your time was spent waiting in your trailer until it was time to go out and do your scenes over and over again before going back to your trailer again. She turned to me. “What do you think?” Laurel’s poker face was gone. In fact, she looked really excited. Like as excited as she did when the Container Store had their big half-yearly sale.

  When Laurel said things about being lonely, it made me feel like an awful, horrible person for having bad thoughts about her. “I think it sounds . . . great,” I said. I hoped it sounded somewhat convincing, because, unlike her, I was NOT a great actress. I hadn’t even been able to get a role as a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz in third grade, and everyone knows that’s next to impossible to do.

  How bad could it be? I’d miss school and get to fly first class and order room service. Plus, I had never been to the Pacific Ocean before. It was a lot better than going to the Grand Canyon in a Winnebago like Alice’s family was making her do for their summer vacation.

  Not only that, but it would give me time to figure out how to deal with the fact that my own mother didn’t seem the least bit guilty about shipping me off for a week so she could go “do it” nonstop in a foreign country.

  “I can’t believe you get to meet Austin Mackenzie,” screeched Alice for the fifth time at lunch later that day. Austin was her celebrity crush, too.

  I covered my ears. I was a loud talker, but Alice was deaf in one ear, so she literally screamed half the time. Even though she couldn’t help it, it was one more reason why I wasn’t so hot on having her as one of my BFFs.

  “I bet that means you’ll meet Connor Forrester, too,” said Beatrice for the sixth time. “You’re so lucky you get to go to L.A.,” sighed Beatrice. “That’s almost as cool as going to Paris.” Beatrice was going to be a famous writer when she grew up and live in Paris and have lots of boyfriends and a parrot that only spoke French. “If you want, you can use Connor as your celebrity crush the week you’re there. I’ll share.”

  “And he’d be your local one, too!” added Alice.

  I cringed. “Okay, no offense, because I know he’s already your celebrity crush, Beatrice, but there is no way I could ever have a crush on someone who ate a worm.” A chess player was one thing, but a worm eater was a whole other.

  Just then a very tall girl named Angela Springer walked up to the table. I didn’t really know her, other than the fact that everyone wanted he
r on their team for volleyball.

  “Are you that New Girl who’s keeping the crush log?” she asked me.

  “Omigod—Lucy, you’re really getting famous!” Alice gasped.

  I craned my neck to look up at Angela (boy, was she tall!) and nodded, taking the log out of my bag. I wasn’t wild about the New Girl part, but it was nice to feel like people knew who I was.

  “Okay. Here are mine. Celebrity: Shaquille O’Neal.”

  I started writing. I knew who he was—a famous basketball player.

  “Local: Grant Heath—he goes to Dalton.” Dalton was another private school in the city, on the Upper East Side.

  “And long distance, Amy Doyle.”

  I looked up at her.

  “Yeah. We went to basketball camp together last summer. She lives in Connecticut.”

  I shrugged and wrote it down. “Okay, you’re all set,” I said. “Just make sure to let me know if there are any changes so we can keep your records up to date.” I counted the entries. So far there were twenty-five.

  “Omigod! Cristina Pollock is walking right toward us!” Alice screamed.

  As I looked over, I saw that sure enough, Cristina Pollock had gotten up from her seat smack in the middle of the Most Popular table in the Most Popular section of the cafeteria and was coming over to where we sat on the edge of the Non-Popular section.

  “Way to take away my appetite,” Beatrice grumbled.

  I looked down at her sardine sandwich. As far as I was concerned, that was enough to take away a person’s appetite. But I totally understood why she hated Cristina so much. At least in my case Rachel and Missy had called me from the mall to tell me they were dumping me—Cristina hadn’t even bothered to tell Beatrice. Beatrice had to hear a group of girls talking about it in gym class.

  “Hi, Lucy!” Cristina said, all friendly when she got to our table.