Sealed With a Kiss Read online

  “Um, hi?” I said, all suspect. I was getting used to kids being nice to me because of Laurel (well, at least until they realized I wasn’t going to introduce them to her—then they went back to pretty much ignoring me), but with Cristina it was different. Even though it had been over a month ago, she still hadn’t gotten over the fact that I had turned down her invitation to sit with her at lunch and was being a total jerk to me. It had taken everything in me to not say “Look, I know that the only reason you asked me to sit with you is because you want to use me to try to become friends with Laurel so you can be on her show,” but I didn’t, because (a) then she’d know I was overlistening when she was talking to her BFF Chloe in the girls’ room and I was in one of the stalls, and (b) I was afraid that she’d use her powers as the most-popular girl in sixth grade to somehow make me even more unpopular than I already was. Not like a person with the nickname Period Girl can get much more unpopular.

  I tried to hide the crush log from her, but it was too late. “So I heard you have a new log,” she said, pointing to it.

  I nodded. I really hoped my face wasn’t too red. If she gave me another nickname because of this, that would not be good. Not like anything could be as bad as Period Girl.

  “Can I see it?”

  “No,” Beatrice said. “Only people who are members can see it.”

  Uh-oh. What was this whole “member” thing? We hadn’t discussed this. Plus, Cristina was the first person we had put in there.

  “How do you become a member?” she asked, flipping her long blonde hair. It wasn’t fair that someone as mean as Cristina had such pretty hair.

  “It’s an invitation-only thing,” Beatrice said.

  “Hey, do you want to know who mine are?” Alice asked. “My celebrity one is—”

  “Actually, no. No, I don’t,” Cristina stopped her. “Well, I’m inviting myself to be in it.”

  I turned it to a new page so she wouldn’t see that her name was already there and got ready to write.

  “So under celebrity crush, you can put . . . Connor Forrester.” She smacked her forehead. “Omigod, what a coincidence—you’re probably going to get to meet him, right? When you go to L.A. with Laurel for the new Austin Mackenzie movie?”

  Thanks to Alice and her big mouth, everyone had heard about that—even the eighth graders. I don’t know why Cristina thought she had a shot at acting, because if this whole performance was any indication of her talent, she was really bad.

  “Maybe,” I said suspiciously. I could see that she was holding something behind her back.

  She held out an eight-by-ten print of her yearbook photo. “I was wondering if you could give him this when you do,” she said. Dear Connor, it said on the back, If you ever come to New York City, I’d be happy to be your personal tour guide. Sincerely, Cristina Pollock, 212-555-0175.

  “Okay,” I said. Not. I’d be throwing that in the garbage when I bused my tray.

  “Thanks,” she said. “He’s soooo cute. Everyone knows that I can pretty much get any boy in New York that I want, but I’d totally take myself off the market for him.”

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “He’s fourteen—I’m sure he’s just dying to go out with a sixth grader.”

  She shrugged. “You never know. Some guys like younger women. My dad’s new girlfriend is fifteen years younger than him.”

  “Yeah, well, if he did, what makes you think that he won’t take one look at Lucy and fall madly in love with her?” Beatrice asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Cristina and I said at the same time. The odds of that happening were as good as my waking up the next morning to find that my old 32A bra fit.

  Beatrice shrugged. “You never know.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Exactly,” Cristina said. It was probably the only time ever that we had agreed on something. “Well, I should get back to the popular area. I’m starting to feel a little nauseous over here.” She gave me one last fake smile. “Thanks for giving him the picture.”

  “But you didn’t tell us your other crushes!” Alice yelled after her.

  As I watched Cristina walk away, I took out my advice notebook. When trying to get boys to notice you, make sure your hips swing from side to side. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but it seemed to really work for Cristina.

  Maybe if I ever got this crush thing figured out, I’d try it. Except that knowing me and my coordination problem, I’d fall and break my ankle.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Laurel said as she poked her head into my bathroom as I was brushing my teeth that night.

  “Mmmwwhff?” I said, which was teeth-brushing-ese for “What?”

  “The movie is shooting at Olympus Studios.”

  At that, I almost swallowed the toothpaste in my mouth. I knew exactly where Olympus Studios was. At the beginning of every episode of Dr. Maude’s show, the announcer would say, “And now, from Olympus Studios, smack in the middle of Hollywood, California, it’s time for another enlightening hour of Come On, People—Get with the Program with relationship expert Dr. Maude!” Not only that, but I knew from that month’s DrMaude.com newsletter that she was going to be spending the entire month of June out in L.A. taping her shows, which meant we’d be there AT THE EXACT SAME TIME.

  “Do you think maybe I could be in the audience of Dr. Maude’s show?” I gasped after I spit it out.

  “I just e-mailed Alex to see what he can do,” Laurel replied. Alex was Laurel’s agent’s assistant. Being able to boss around people in their twenties was pretty cool. The organizational stuff might drive me crazy, but Laurel was super-thoughtful. “I’m really glad you’re coming,” she said shyly, giving me a quick hug.

  “Me, too,” I said, hugging back. I wasn’t lying—the more I thought about it, the more excited I got. Even before I heard about the Dr. Maude thing.

  “Are you wearing a bra?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “So my boobs will shrink,” I replied.

  She sighed. “I’d do anything to have your chest.”

  As far as I was concerned, she could have it. Who knew what could happen, I thought as I got into bed. Maybe being together for a week without parents would make us a lot closer. And then, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, it hit me, and I shot up in bed. Why settle for just being in the audience of Dr. Maude’s show? Why not try to get on the show as a guest? I found it hard to believe that anyone needed as much advice as a sixth grader. This would be awesome—I could have all my problems solved in one hour, and I’d be completely happy for the rest of my life and would never have to worry again!

  chapter 4

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  GUESS WHAT?! Mom and Alan are sending me to L.A. with Laurel for a week to hang out with her while she shoots the new Austin Mackenzie movie! Without them, because they’re totally dumping us and going to Italy for a week probably so that they can do it nonstop. As you can see, I wasn’t lying about my mother totally abandoning me, so I really am going to need some advice about all that.

  But that’s not the reason I’m writing. (Although if you FINALLY end up writing me back, I hope it’s to give me some advice about what a person should do when her own mother doesn’t have any time for her.) The reason I’m writing is because it turns out you and I will be in L.A. AT THE SAME TIME. In fact, I was thinking that maybe you’d like to have me on as a guest! I don’t want to put you on the spot or anything, so I’ll give you some time to think about it. And if for some reason you say no, I’ll be okay with that. Even though I think it would be a big mistake because you’d probably get really high ratings on account of the fact that I have a lot going on in my life that would make for very interesting television. But if you do say no, if you could at least get me a ticket to just sit in the audience, that would be great.

  Thanks very much.

  yours truly,

  LUCY B. PARKER

  The next night as I w
as Googling “symptoms of a crush” instead of doing my mixed-fractions homework (“oversharing” didn’t come up anywhere in my search), Beatrice texted me. Want to come down and watch America’s Worst Dancers with Blair and me?

  Here was my chance to spend more time with Blair and find out if what I had was a crush. And to see what color his eyes were. Sure, I typed back. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Looking down at my hairy legs and cruddy shorts, I realized going up there in shorts wasn’t going to win me any points with Blair if I did have a crush on him, so I grabbed the first thing my hand landed on in my closet, which was a denim miniskirt. After pulling on my rainbow tights and a Beatles T-shirt, and putting my purple flower in my hair, I was ready to go.

  Okay, Lucy, whatever you do, be cool and DO NOT ask about Blair, I thought to myself as Beatrice let me in and we made our way to the living room. A very tall man was dancing the tango with a very short woman on TV. “So where’s Blair?” I blurted out.

  “In the kitchen, putting together some disgusting food combination, like usual,” she replied.

  I couldn’t believe we had that in common—I loved disgusting food combinations. Like, say, egg noodles with peanut butter. That was a good sign. Okay, Lucy, whatever you do, just keep your butt planted on this couch and DO NOT go into the kitchen. Let him come to you. I started fake choking, sounding like Miss Piggy right before she hacked up a hairball. “Hey, is it okay if I get some water?” I gasped.

  She stood up. “Sure. I’ll get you—”

  I popped up. “No! I know how much you love this show. You stay and watch it. Water’s in the kitchen, right? Where Blair is?”

  When I got there, he was standing at the counter eating from a bowl. “I can’t believe there’s another person in the world who puts Cinnamon Life on top of their ice cream!” I said, amazed.

  “Well, yeah,” he said with his mouth full. “The saltiness of the oats mixed with the sugariness of the ice cream is the perfect combination.”

  “That’s what I always say!” I exclaimed. Ice cream really had a way of bringing people together. In fact, when Laurel and I ran into each other at Scoops, my favorite ice-cream place in Northampton, and I saw that we liked the same combination (peppermint stick and mint chocolate chip ice cream with hot butterscotch and hot caramel, whipped cream, and M&Ms), I realized that maybe Laurel wasn’t the stuck-up superstar I thought she was. Well, that and the fact that she looked like a normal girl because she had been crying for hours because she had been friend-dumped.

  “What’s your name again?” he asked.

  “Lucy. Lucy B. Parker. I’m Beatrice’s best friend. We met once before,” I said. “Before Korean food. You were wearing an Albert Einstein T-shirt and said creative people were messy.” Again with the oversharing. This was not good.

  “That’s weird that you remembered all that,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I have an excellent memory. And excellent hearing.” I tried to think of something else to say, but my mind was blank, so I was silent. He was, too, except for the crunching. If you really liked someone, weren’t you supposed to have like nine million things to say to them and never run out of conversation? That’s the way it was with Mom and Alan and Dad and Sarah. Except it was also that way with Mom and Dad now, and they’ve been divorced for a year and a half. Maybe I just came from a family of people who talked a lot.

  Beatrice stuck her head in. “Lucy, you’re missing the blind people salsaing!” she said before going back into the living room.

  “Well, uh, I guess I should go,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, swigging from a milk carton.

  “So I guess I’ll see you around,” I said.

  I waited for him to say, “Hey, I was thinking, maybe you want to go across the street to the park and go Rollerblading sometime” or “Maybe we should exchange e-mail addresses”—anything, something that would make me think that maybe I was on the right track with this crush thing. But all he said was, “I guess.” And then he burped again.

  Great. I was leaving just as uncertain about this whole crush as I had been before I walked in the door. And I still didn’t know what color his eyes were!

  chapter 5

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  I don’t have a lot of time to write because my dad and Sarah are going to be here any minute. They decided last night to come down for the weekend, and I’m really hoping that Dad’s not lying when he says it’s just because they miss me a lot and want to see me before I leave for L.A. instead of some OTHER reason—like, say, they’re coming to tell me in person that Sarah is actually having twins or something equally horrible. Because if that’s the case, I’m going to be VERY upset. There’s only so much a person can handle at one time, and between Mom abandoning me and trying to figure out if what I have is actually a crush, I have a lot on my plate at the moment.

  Anyway, I leave for L.A. on Friday. I’m starting to get really excited. That being said, by the time I get back Blair will be gone. Beatrice told me yesterday that they’re going to their grandmother’s house in the Hamptons for a week before they go to camp. So unless something happens between now and Friday, I’ll have to wait ten whole weeks to see him. Which might not be such a bad thing. I mean, who knows—maybe I’ll meet a better crush in the meantime. You know, one where I actually know for sure that that’s what it is.

  Uh-oh—Pete just called up to say Dad and Sarah are here. Wish me luck.

  yours truly,

  LUCY B. PARKER

  P.S. Not to be a pain or anything, but if you could let me know whether you want me to come on the show ASAP that would be great.

  The first thing I did when I saw Dad was burst into tears. I felt really stupid, but going from being able to see your father whenever you want to once a month is a big shock to the system. I really missed him. Unlike a lot of kids I knew, whose dads were what Mom called “emotionally unavailable workaholics” (at least I think that’s what she said about Marissa’s dad, since I had been standing at the top of the stairs in our old house when she said it and that wasn’t the easiest place to overlisten from), my dad was very available and very emotional. Any sort of commercial that had to do with holidays or weddings or graduations made him cry. In fact, he was so into spending quality time together that he didn’t even mind doing girl stuff like going shopping. Although if it happened to be at the Holyoke Mall, he’d mutter about how chain stores like the Gap and Banana Republic were ruining the world.

  “Monkey girl!” he cried as he smothered me in a huge hug. Mom called me “jelly bean,” and Dad called me “monkey girl.” Well, that’s what they called me until I’d turned ten and told them they couldn’t anymore because it was stupid. However, on special occasions, I let them do it, and seeing my dad now seemed to fit into that category.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, sniffling. I could feel my head getting wet, which meant he was crying, too. It was great to feel loved, but I wish it could’ve happened on a day when I wasn’t having such a good hair day. Even though my own eyes were teary, my vision wasn’t so screwed up that I couldn’t see Sarah as she waddled into the apartment. In fact, a person would have to be legally blind with very dark sunglasses on not to see her, on account of the fact that even though she was only five and a half months pregnant, she was huge.

  “Sarah, what . . . happened?” I gasped, letting go of Dad. When I had said good-bye to her in Northampton, you could barely tell she was pregnant. Dad had called it a “food baby” because she looked like she had just eaten a huge Italian meal. But now? Not only was her belly huge, but everything else was—her boobs, her butt. Even her hands looked bigger.

  She laughed. “Apparently I popped.”

  Popped?! It was more like she had exploded. By the time the Creature arrived, she was going to look like a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  “A few weeks ago when I was in 7-Eleven picking up some green tea, I saw these things called Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets—have you ever heard of them
?” she asked.

  Um, yeah. They were number seven on my Top Foods of All Time list.

  “Anyway, I haven’t been able to stop eating them since,” she said.

  “I finally went ahead and ordered a case of them,” Dad explained.

  Yeah, it showed. Seeing a pregnant woman gain weight wouldn’t have been such a weird thing, but this was Sarah, a yoga teacher who thought sugar and bread were evil and pretty much ate only boring salads without any good stuff in it like mozzarella cheese or chickpeas. The idea of her stuffing her face with Tastykakes was like something you’d see in a horror movie.

  It turned out it wasn’t just Butterscotch Krimpets that Sarah craved. Dad and I walked our way across New York that afternoon, but Sarah ate her way across it. After we went to the Rubin Museum (they specialized in Buddhist art, which is why Dad wanted to check it out), we must have stopped at every pretzel cart, hotdog cart, and Mister Softee ice-cream truck between the West Village and SoHo. Lucky for her, there was a street fair on Sullivan Street, which meant a ton of fried food. At first I tried to keep up with her, but once I started feeling nauseated, I gave up.

  As she chomped away on a corn dog, she patted her stomach. “I sure hope Ziggy doesn’t go into lard withdrawal after he’s born.”

  “Who’s Ziggy?” I asked.

  Dad put his arm around Sarah’s shoulder. Was it just my imagination, or had her arm gotten flabbier in the few hours she’d been in New York? “Ziggy . . . is going to be your brother’s name!” he said, excitedly.

  “Wait a second. You found out the Crea—I mean, the baby—is a boy?!” I cried. At least a boy was better than a girl. While the baby might replace me as Dad’s favorite kid, I was still going to be his favorite daughter. Unless they had another baby after this one and it was a girl. Then there was going to be trouble. “What happened to being surprised?”

  “Not knowing the sex made it too difficult to bond with him,” Sarah said as she nibbled on a fried plantain, “so we found out the other day.”