Be Strong & Curvaceous Read online

  “Could it be someone Carrie knows?”

  “We know all the same people. If she knew, I’d know. And I don’t even remember seeing anyone the night he took that picture. Look, we’ve been over all this before and we’re no further ahead. I’m sick of it.” She shut the laptop down and slid it into her bag.

  “Okay. So. Are you going to go with Brett and those guys?” Not the best topic to switch to, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

  She shrugged. “I may as well. And leave you with your prep.”

  I did the mental translation: homework. “Thanks.”

  She changed out of her uniform into a pair of jeans, with a tank and a silk babydoll top over it that tied in the back with a black silk ribbon.

  “That’s adorable,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “London. Topshop, I think. Do you suppose Brett will notice?”

  “He’s a guy.” I hoped my attempt at sarcasm hid the sinking feeling in my middle. “Of course he will.”

  I thought that might cheer her up a little, but she didn’t smile. She just grabbed an equally adorable Mulberry handbag and flitted out of the room as if she’d completely forgotten her fright over the e-mail, leaving me with fifty word problems and an urge to seek and consume the biggest chocolate bar in the vending machine.

  DGeary Did you hear the news?

  CPowell Chris Brown is playing the Fillmore?

  DGeary I wish. Try again.

  CPowell Vanessa and Brett are back together?

  DGeary No. But close.

  CPowell I give up. I’m losing neurons over these word problems. Come save me.

  DGeary I just heard that Brett went out with Carly Aragon.

  CPowell Who??

  DGeary aka MexiDog.

  CPowell OMG. Are you sure?

  DGeary Got it straight from an eyewitness. And, no, VT does not know.

  CPowell Isn’t she the one rooming with Lady L?

  DGeary The same.

  CPowell Wow. Who is she?

  DGeary Up until now I’d have said nobody. Some people think he’s slumming. But now I’m not so sure.

  CPowell Maybe we should invite her to your party Friday.

  DGeary Ya think?

  Chapter 11

  NEXT TO VANESSA, probably the most scarifying person at Spencer is Ms. Curzon, the headmistress. So naturally, guess who stopped me in the corridor the next day on my way to fifth-period Spanish.

  “I was hoping I might run into you,” she said with a smile.

  I flipped through the last couple of days at top speed. What had I done wrong? Were students here supposed to tell the administration when they got jobs?

  “Really?” I said faintly when I came up with nothing.

  “I wondered how you were managing now that you’re sharing a room.”

  I pasted on a smile as bright as hers had been. “Fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Unfortunately, the news about Lady Lindsay’s identity got out a little sooner than I would have liked.”

  “She asked me not to call her that. I call her Mac.”

  “Did she? I’m afraid I have no choice. ‘Miss MacPhail’ simply isn’t correct, though I would have continued to use it if we’d managed to keep our secret.”

  I wondered what all this had to do with me. I glanced down the corridor to the door of my Spanish classroom. It hadn’t closed yet, which meant I wasn’t late.

  She followed my glance. “I won’t keep you. But I did want to ask if everything was working out for the two of you. Lady Lindsay did, after all, request a change of room at the beginning of term.”

  “It’s fine,” I said again. “We’ve . . . begun to get along.” The urge to tell her about Mac’s e-mail stalker welled up, and I struggled to squash it down. Not my decision. Mac had told me to keep it quiet. If I blabbed about it to the headmistress, Mac would never forgive me for breaking her confidence.

  But what if breaking a confidence was the right thing to do? How was a person supposed to know? Was this the kind of thing Gillian and Lissa would talk to God about? Could you talk to God in front of someone?

  Lord? Lord, what should I do?

  “I knew you were the right choice to share with her,” Ms. Curzon said. “You’re a down-to-earth, sensible girl. You can be a good influence on her.”

  I doubt that. Then I realized with horror I’d actually said it out loud.

  “I realize you’ve had very different upbringings. But she’s a long way from home and could use a friend.”

  Lots of the students here were a long way from home. Gillian, for one. And the principal wasn’t going around looking for friends for her.

  I just smiled.

  “Thank you, Miss Aragon.” She patted me on the arm. “Off you go, now. I see that Señorita de la Cruz is waiting at the door.”

  At least I didn’t get a demerit for being late. I slid into my seat and tried to figure out what that had all been about.

  “If you ask me,” Shani said the next morning as we ate breakfast together, “she just wants to keep the hush money.”

  “Hush money? What?” I stirred fruit into my bowl of yogurt. Shani, always doing her own thing, sprinkled sugar and raisins on her oatmeal. Lissa has turned the Spencer breakfast staple into a standing joke, but I think Shani actually likes it.

  “Well, maybe not hush money, but you’ve got to believe having Mac here will only raise Spencer’s profile. Think of the new enrollments. I mean, the spawn of computer moguls and local money is one thing. But titled Scottish heiresses are another kettle of haggis—as dear Vanessa will be the first to tell you, since she snagged her to head up the fashion show.”

  “What is haggis, and what is it doing in a kettle?”

  She told me, and I wished I hadn’t asked. “Maybe Curzon was honestly concerned. I mean, you’ve got to admit the girl is intimidating.”

  “Who’s intimidating?”

  My stomach flip-flopped and sank as Mac put her plate of huevos rancheros on the table next to me and slid into a chair.

  “You.” Shani smiled with so much charm that one of those cartoon sparkles practically glinted off her teeth.

  I kicked her under the table.

  “Rubbish.” Mac poked at her eggs. “What on earth is this?”

  Maybe huevos were to her what haggis was to me. I told her and she took an experimental bite.

  “No huevos in Scotland?” Shani asked, minus the charm and more like the real girl who was my friend.

  “Not like this, with the spicy bits,” Mac said, taking another bite. “This is good.”

  “Remind me to take you to my favorite place south of San Jose,” I said. Not that I thought she’d ever take me up on it. “They make the best chiles rellenos ever. And their green chile enchiladas are to die for.”

  “Don’t you go home every weekend?” she asked.

  I started to nod, then stopped. I had to work on Saturdays. I might have been able to get away with staying in San Francisco last weekend because Papa was out of the country, but it couldn’t go on forever. In fact, I needed to tell him what I was doing. Would Enrique still be willing to come and get me on Saturday nights after eight? Or would Papa finally quit being all protective and macho and admit that I was old enough to do something as simple as hop on BART and take a train down to the South Bay?

  “Her dad sends a limo every Friday, like clockwork.” I hoped Shani didn’t think that would impress a girl like Mac, who probably had a fleet of limos on permanent retainer.

  “Maybe he wouldn’t mind if I joined you sometime, then.” Mac paused when I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I was stunned into speechlessness. “Do you ever have people stay with you?”

  “Um . . . not usually,” I managed. Then, in case she thought I was brushing her off, I added, “I have a little brother, and half the time a bunch of semi-cousins are over, all his age. I wouldn’t want to inflict that kind of pain on any of my friends.”

  I met her eyes and smiled,
and for the first time she smiled back—not a social smile or a condescending one or the deceptive kind Vanessa uses to get what she wants. A real one. The kind friends share over an inside joke or a memory.

  “I’d be willing to risk it,” she said. “I’d like to see where you live.”

  “Me, too,” Shani put in. “How about it, Carly? Some of us could stand to get away from here once in a while.”

  “Um . . .” I tried to think of some reason why they couldn’t come spend a weekend with me—other than the real ones, of course. There weren’t enough bedrooms. We only lived in a condo. Papa had so little time with us that the weekends together as a family were precious.

  Papa. That was it.

  “My father’s out of town a lot,” I mumbled. “It’s hard to schedule a time when he’s there so he can meet you all.”

  “Not that I wouldn’t love to meet your dad,” Mac said, scooping up the last of the papitas on her plate, “but we could have a good time without him, too, yeah?”

  “Well, when he’s gone we stay with my sort-of aunt and the previously mentioned horde of semi-cousins.”

  “You don’t stay on your own?” Mac looked surprised. “When Mum goes off for the weekend, she always lets me have the flat to myself. I have one or two mates over, and we have a great time.”

  “No,” I had to confess. “Papa is old-fashioned.” It would never occur to him to leave the two of us alone, without family or Tía Donna there. Not that I couldn’t cook up a big batch of Antony’s favorite carnitas and look after us myself, but Papa wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Her dad loves her,” Shani said loyally. “When she comes home, he wants to be there. I think that’s great.”

  I gave her a big smile. Shani’s a little scary before you get to know her, but once she lets you in, she’s rock solid.

  “Are you insinuating,” Mac said coolly, “that my mum doesn’t love me? That she abandons me?”

  Shani looked blank. “Of course not. I’m the last person to say that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Ever wonder why I’m in boarding school?”

  “No, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “It’s so my parents don’t have to be bothered with me. And I like that just fine.” She glanced at me. “I think Carly’s lucky. Somebody cares about where she is. And about being there when she is.”

  Well, somebody might if they knew. Guilt prickled through me. I really, really needed to have a conversation with Papa, and soon. Although how I was going to explain how I needed a job more than I needed to see my family, I wasn’t sure.

  CPowell Are you busy after dinner?

  GChang What’s up?

  CPowell I need serious help with these word problems. Do you tutor?

  GChang I would if I had time, but I’m pretty crazed right now. Try Travis Fanshaw.

  CPowell Thanks. Aren’t you friends with Carly Aragon?

  GChang Yes.

  CPowell Do you have her cell number? Emily and DeLayne are having a party at Callum McCloud’s place and I want to invite her.

  GChang ??

  CPowell It’s only polite. Brett’s coming. Vanessa doesn’t know.

  GChang Again, ??

  CPowell You must not be very good friends then. Her number?

  GChang 408-555-0710.

  CPowell Tx. I’ll call Travis, too.

  GChang What’s going on?

  GChang Hello?

  THAT EVENING, I got my first paycheck. Hustling into the office at the back of Piccadilly Photo where Philip places his orders and does owner stuff, I ripped open the envelope.

  Two hundred and eighty dollars? For two weeks’ hard work?

  I smacked myself on the forehead. How could I have forgotten about income tax and all that stuff that comes out of your check before you see it? Stifling a groan, I pulled out Philip’s chair and sank into it.

  I could buy a grand total of two yards of fabric. Or half of one shoe. There were six weeks of school left. Even if I had two more paychecks, there wouldn’t be time to order fabric from England or Italy, never mind make a dress. I still hadn’t come up with the most important thing—a design.

  I tried to calm down and slow my heart rate. What I needed to do was fall back to Plan B.

  Just as soon as I came up with it.

  The bell over the door rang a couple times in succession, so I stuffed the check in the pocket of my lab coat and went out to the front. As I took in rolls of film for a guy in his twenties, I tried to be polite and businesslike while my brain galloped like a hamster on a wheel.

  Fabric. Time. Homework. Work. Brett. Fabric, time, homework, work, Brett. FabrictimehomeworkworkBrett.

  I blinked and realized the guy had left and I was now helping a lady choose a digital camera. I’d somehow lost twenty minutes.

  Any more of this and I’d be losing my mind.

  At eight I said good night to Philip and got on the bus. I turned my phone on and nearly jumped out of my seat when it rang a couple of seconds later.

  “Hi Carly, this is Christine Powell.”

  It took me a second to place her. Oh, yeah. She hung around with DeLayne Geary, in Vanessa’s second tier of friends. “Hi. How’s it going?”

  She moaned. “These word problems. I’m dying, I swear.”

  Surely she couldn’t have called me for help. “I know. Me, too.”

  “I IM’d that Asian girl you hang around with to ask for tutoring, but she blew me off. Anyway, that isn’t why I called.”

  Stranger and stranger. “Oh?”

  “Me and DeLayne and Emily Overton are throwing a party at Callum’s tomorrow night. If you don’t have anything else going, maybe you’d like to come.”

  “I—wow, I—um . . .” I gave myself a mental smack to stop the babbling. “Thanks.”

  She gave me the address and I wrote it on the back of my class schedule. “So, do you think you’ll make it?”

  “Maybe,” I said cautiously. “Around nine or so.”

  “Oh, it won’t get going until then, at least. And, you know, Brett’s going to be there.”

  I sucked in a breath as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Please, please, please don’t let my hopeless crush be common knowledge.

  Then, in the next second, I knew. Oh, this was just too cruel. Mac had told someone. I’d been so careful not to break her confidence, against my better judgment. But had she done the same?

  Obviously not.

  I sat on the noisy bus, surrounded by strangers, and felt the hot blood of total mortification seep into my face.

  “Hey, Carly, no big deal if you guys are still underground,” Christine said. “I’m discreet.”

  “That’s good,” I said faintly. What was she talking about?

  “I know how totally annoying it is to have people talking about you. Vanessa won’t hear about it from me, I promise.”

  “Okay.” People were talking? Did everyone in the whole school know? Had they just invited me so they’d have a captive victim to laugh at? Free entertainment?

  “Though I have to warn you, a party at Callum’s doesn’t happen without her. If you guys show up together—or even separately—be prepared.”

  “For what?” I rasped from a dry throat.

  Christine laughed. “You are so secure. Well, if it were me and I’d just snagged her ex-boyfriend, I’d be arriving in designer Kevlar.”

  Snagged . . . ?

  Boyfriend . . . ?

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said from the depths of the Twilight Zone. There was nothing to do but play along until I found out from someone exactly what was going on.

  “No problem. See you there.”

  “’Bye.”

  She rang off, and I realized with a start that I’d missed my stop. I jumped off at the next one and spent the whole five-block walk back trying to figure it out. By the time I got to the school gates, the late spring twilight had deepened into dark, and I was no more enlightened than I’d been before.r />
  I didn’t even know who to ask. Certainly not Mac, who had already proved she had a big mouth. And not Lissa or Gillian, who kept a DMZ between themselves and Vanessa’s crowd.

  Maybe Shani would know. She’d never lie to me, and she wouldn’t shrug me off, either. She was pretty hooked into school gossip, mostly because it entertained her. She saw it as her very own walking, talking issue of Teen People.

  I pushed open the front doors and glanced into the common room as I went by. No Brett. Just as well. I didn’t think I could face him if some oh-so-kind person had passed on the latest. Out of habit, I paused in front of the portrait of Eleanor Spencer and gazed at her dress until I felt calmer.

  Then I focused.

  The Worth gown. Complete with his trademark draping, a waterfall of clever pleats and tucks from shoulder to waist. I leaned closer, trying to see clues in the Impressionist daubs of paint. What if I didn’t design a ballgown? What if, with two yards of fabric, I made a cocktail minidress using a design element like this pleating right here? It would be a tip of the hat to Spencer’s past, and yet be modern enough to make an entrance at—at TouTou’s, for instance.

  Carly Aragon, you are a genius.

  Brett Loyola and all of his and Vanessa’s friends might be laughing at me now, but when I stepped onto the runway in that dress, he’d see me. Really see me. The way he’d seen me the other night, under the trees, when we’d talked about religion. And that wouldn’t be all. There’d be designers in that audience with master’s degrees in history. They would know where that design element came from. They’d know what I was trying to say.

  We’d speak a common language.

  Now I just had to make sure the words were perfect.

  * * *

  To:DList_DYD_Committee

  From:[email protected]

  Date:May 1, 2009

  Re:Meeting 2nd period

  Hi all. Let’s meet at Starbucks today during Life Sciences. I have the final list of designers to share with you, and we’ve decided on an event planning company. Plans are full speed ahead, so I need to catch you all up.