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  Uh-huh. Dream on, Carly. Anyone standing next to Lady Lindsay MacPhail disappears into the wallpaper, never to be seen again.

  Mac got to her feet. “All right. I’ll come with you. On one condition.”

  Of course. How could I have expected anything less? “What?”

  “You introduce me to that dishy lad with the dark eyes.”

  Cold horror splashed into my stomach. “Which one?”

  “You can hardly miss him. His equally dishy blond friend who insists on hanging around with Vanessa called him Brett.”

  I dragged air into lungs that had quit wanting to work. “Sure,” I said in a completely beige tone. “I’d be happy to.”

  She could get me what I wanted—a place on the committee. Too bad she could also take what I wanted—Brett. Achieving one dream would be pretty empty without the other.

  Chapter 5

  TOUTOU’S. None of my friends had ever been there; Gillian had gotten close once, but the ratball who’d been her date had stood her up. It didn’t look all that much different from your average San Francisco bistro—lots of glossy wood and glass and orchids—until you noticed Robin Williams having dinner with his wife at the window table. Or Kate and Laura Mulleavy laughing together over drinks. Or the rented sedan with the long telephoto lens hanging out of the driver’s side on the opposite side of the street.

  Of course Vanessa and her gang would choose to hang out there.

  I dressed carefully, even running down to Gillian to beg for her blue silk Bottega Veneta swing jacket. It went perfectly with the Hanni Y. silver-and-white silk polka-dot dress I’d nabbed on sale at Bloomie’s in Palo Alto just before school started. I pinned my mop of hair up into a loose French twist and was feeling pretty good about my look when Mac stepped out of the bathroom.

  In a Prada glazed-ice minidress I’d seen pictures of from the Milan shows.

  It was already ten to eight, so there was no time for me to change or even to think about it. Oh, who was I fooling—I had nothing to change into anyway.

  Cabs typically cruised the street at the end of the driveway after school hours, so we walked across the lawn to flag one. “Oh, please,” Mac muttered as a photographer leaning on the wrought-iron fence straightened and scrutinized us. Next to him was a skinny guy in a gray hoodie who whipped out a cheap little camera and snapped a picture. That couldn’t be a pro. It feels a little weird to go to a school that’s on the tourist radar. I turned my back, searching the street for a cab.

  “Don’t bother,” the older guy muttered. “She’s nobody.”

  Nobody? I tried not to laugh as Mac averted her face, too.

  “The dark one, maybe, but the redhead’s Lady—” the younger guy began, but a cab slid up to the curb. High heels and all, we ran for it and I didn’t hear the rest. We made it to the restaurant ten minutes late, with me following Mac up the stairs, feeling like a seven-year-old in my polka dots.

  Everyone else was already there.

  Chin up, girlfriend. So what if the paparazzi don’t care who you are? You’re still not sliding in behind her.

  This was a make-or-break moment. If I started off in Mac’s shadow, I may as well cut a rent check and stay there. So when she stepped into the room hips first, in her model-like way, I did the same. I even stepped around her, greeting Vanessa and Emily with air kisses and that brush of arms that passes for a hug.

  A cool, noncommittal smile tilting her mouth, Mac let me introduce her to as many people as I knew, and I tried to remember the names of the ones I didn’t as they introduced themselves. And then came the moment I’d been dreading behind my polka dots and bright smile.

  “Mac,” I said steadily, “this is Brett Loyola, who’s in AP Chem with me. Brett, this is my roommate, Lindsay MacPhail, but she goes by Mac.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The sexy grin Brett shot her would have made my knees dissolve if it had been directed at me.

  And then it was. Directed at me, I mean. I think I actually forgot to breathe.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

  Oh Lord, take me now. A heart attack would be good. With an ambulance and a teary deathbed good-bye that would wipe out the utter humiliation of this moment.

  “It’s Carly Aragon,” Mac said smoothly. “I do like all my friends to know each other.”

  “Does that mean I get to be your friend?” he asked, with the kind of smile that already knows the answer.

  “We’ll see.”

  He grinned even wider at the promise in her tone. “Come on. Why don’t you join me and Cal?”

  I didn’t stop to wonder if the “you” was singular or plural. I just went. This time last week, I’d have laughed if you’d told me I’d be sitting at a table in TouTou’s with Lissa’s ex, Callum McCloud, and Brett Loyola. It would have ranked right up there with winning Project Runway or getting an offer to intern with Tori Wu, who designs Gillian’s party dresses. Instead, I smiled and ate chocolate torte and drank a virgin peach bellini (much to everyone’s amusement—how much did they bribe the management to serve all these pretty martinis to minors?) and felt like I was cracking wide open inside.

  “All right, everyone,” Vanessa said, when we all had drinks and dessert, “I’m calling this meeting to order.”

  “Do you have to?” Callum called. “Bo-o-ring.”

  “You know the rules. We have to at least say the words charity fashion show.”

  “Charity fashion show!” half a dozen people chanted helpfully. “Can we have another drink now?”

  “No,” she said. “Work first. I want to get people on task, and then you’re free to do whatever you want.”

  Despite their moaning and groaning, it went pretty smoothly—until Vanessa got to Mac. “Lady Lindsay, I’m so glad you came. Your job will be the best of all.” She leaned, all chummy, on Callum’s arm as he half-sat, half-stood on the long-legged stool. Unlike me. My feet dangled inches above the floor.

  “As far as I know, I haven’t agreed to any sort of job.” Mac took another bite of her olallieberry and amaretto parfait. “Since I wasn’t actually asked.”

  “Emily asked you.”

  “Check your facts. Emily asked Carly.”

  “And Carly must have asked you, since you’re here. Which is good enough for me. Now, let me brief you on what we’re going to need.”

  “I’d prefer to be invited personally, which I believe I made clear.”

  Vanessa sighed and rolled her eyes, her whole body demanding, “What did I do to deserve such a diva?”

  I sat, frozen, watching as my one chance to get on the committee wobbled like a high-wire act between two opposing wills. Just give in. Don’t do this to me. Maybe I should have taken the risk and told Mac what this meant to me.

  “Lady Lindsay, don’t you think you’re overworking this?”

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “I prefer Mac. Less pretentious.”

  “Pretentious,” Vanessa repeated, as if to say, you’re worried about your name? What about your whole attitude?

  I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands.

  “Mm.” Mac spooned up a berry and regarded it with interest. “These are lovely. What do you suppose they’re called?”

  Social conversation was not on Vanessa’s menu. “I’m giving you what amounts to the chair. It’s going to be your face in the magazines and on the advertising. People would kill for this. Are you going to help or not?”

  “Is that a personal invitation?”

  From the depths of my despair, I had to hand it to Mac. She had actually challenged Vanessa in public. Imagine having that much confidence—not to mention the skill to turn a room that belonged to Vanessa into an arena where whatever she did, Vanessa would lose.

  “Oh, give it a rest,” Vanessa snapped. “Yes, if that’s what it takes to get some help.”

  “Thank you. I’d love to.” Mac smiled as though she’d just
been handed a present, all tied up in glossy ribbon. “How kind of you to include me.”

  Vanessa snorted. “I hope you don’t plan to be such a b—I mean, be this difficult with everything. Your job is the most important and visible of all.”

  “So I understand. I’m delighted.”

  “Now that that’s over, can we get another drink?” Brett complained. As Vanessa tossed her hair back and walked away, a server materialized to take his order, and Brett glanced at the rest of us at the table. “Anyone else?”

  “A cinnamon latte, please,” I said.

  “Coffee?” He sounded like I’d asked for motor oil. “Why don’t you get a real drink—not one of those mocktails you had before. The girls tell me the Cosmos are good here.”

  “I’d love one,” Mac said.

  I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, Brett glanced at the server. “Two Cosmos and two Stellas.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Loyola,” the guy said, and vanished.

  Problem. Last week I’d have shrugged and spent the whole evening nursing it, since it was Brett who’d ordered it for me and I didn’t want to look like a complete prudie in front of him. But last week I hadn’t made a certain life-changing choice that meant I’d have to make other choices, even if they were just little ones. Like now.

  The server put the drinks, decorated with paper-thin orange slices, in front of us with a flourish. I took a breath and pushed mine back toward him. “I ordered a latte, please. Cinnamon.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss. I’ll be right back.”

  Brett turned to me, puzzled. “Is something wrong with it?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s great.” I smiled, amazed that I was sitting across from him and he was actually saying something more than “Can I borrow your notes?” I went on, “But I ordered a latte. I guess he didn’t hear me.”

  “I ordered this for you.” He actually looked hurt, and my heart melted. I’d only just gotten him to see me. It was a little too much to expect that he’d listen to me as well.

  “Thank you. But I don’t drink.”

  “Oh, come on, Carmen. Grow up.”

  “My name is Carly.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. You’re in my chem class.”

  And you’ve borrowed my notes a hundred times. “Yes.”

  “You look different.” Again that smile, deep and dark. “Nice.”

  “Th-thanks,” I managed, blinking in the warmth of those eyes. Who cared about drinks? Was this really happening? Breathe. Take a breath.

  The table was tiny and he sat close enough that I could smell his cologne. Spice and a hint of musk and lemon. I had no idea what it was called, but I was going to haunt the men’s counter at Nordstrom until I found out.

  His gaze panned sideways. “So. Mac. What brings you to our town?”

  “I’m an exchange student.” Did she have to lock eyes with him like that? Couldn’t she just make small talk like a normal person? “I’m here for the term, and then I’m going to the back of beyond for the summer. Maybe. ”

  “The back of where?” Callum asked.

  “Someplace called Alberta. Apparently the Prince of Wales owned a ranch there in the thirties and they want me to work with the horses. Take people on riding tours. That sort of thing.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said. How did people find jobs like this? I’d been doing searches daily on Craigslist and hadn’t turned up anything I could do outside of class time.

  “I don’t know,” she said, dabbing her orange slice into her Cosmo. “My father set it up. I may just bag it and volunteer on the Lady Washington for a couple of months. Or go to Provence and do plein air watercolors. It’s impossible to make a decision.”

  “I dunno, working on a ranch sounds cool.” Brett’s eyes were filled with interest. “What do you know about horses?”

  She shrugged. “I have a couple at home in Scotland.”

  “There you go. Horses instead of Provence or the sailing ship. Easy choice.”

  “I’d go to Paris,” I heard myself say. “I’d intern at Dior, picking up fabric scraps just to work in haute couture.”

  “Oat couture?” Callum pretended to look puzzled. “What’s that? Food for high-class horses?”

  Mac rolled her eyes while I hung onto my opportunity to speak. “I’m into design, and Paris and New York would be my top two choices. That, or trying to get into one of the studios in L.A. Movie costuming would be really cool.”

  “So what do you think of Spencer so far?” Brett asked Mac.

  I felt the animation fade from my face as I realized he was more interested in hearing about Mac than me. Okay. Fine. Clearly I needed to find a topic that would catch a guy’s attention. What had I been thinking? Of course clothes and fabrics weren’t going to do that.

  “It’s all right,” Mac answered. “Different.”

  “Different how?” Brett wanted to know.

  She shrugged. “Chemistry is all right. But I had some of the maths last year. And I suppose English is English wherever you go.”

  “What’s your best subject?” I asked. If they wanted to make small talk, I could do that.

  “None of them.” The boys laughed as if that was funny.

  I felt like shrinking away. Why couldn’t I be like Gillian, who could gather an audience just by opening her mouth? Or like Shani, who said whatever she wanted to and couldn’t care less what people thought? She’d make short work of this crowd, that was for sure. “You people need to get a life,” she’d say. Something I’d never have the guts to do, even if it was the truth.

  “Everyone enjoying themselves?” I looked up as Vanessa hooked an empty stool with her high-heeled foot and slid it over. The girl who’d been sitting there was going to have to fend for herself when she got back from the bathroom.

  “Sure.” Callum hitched his own stool to the right a couple inches so she could join us.

  “Lovely,” Mac agreed. “I now have a new favorite drink.” She toasted Vanessa with her Cosmo and took a sip.

  “Whose is this?” Vanessa tapped the second one with a fingernail.

  “Hers, but she doesn’t want it,” Brett said with a glance at me.

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  I couldn’t remember Vanessa ever looking at me directly before. It’s not the kind of thing you want to encourage. I shrugged. “I don’t drink.”

  “Poor you.” Vanessa waved at the waiter and handed it to him. “I’ll have one of these, please. So, Lad—er, Mac, I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we’re going to be the best of friends.”

  Vanessa shot her a glance. Even I couldn’t tell if Mac was being sarcastic or sincere. Some people just have a gift.

  “I think so, too. Why don’t you come with us this weekend? I can brief you on the high points then. We’re all going up to Napa to stay at Brett’s winery.”

  Brett looked down modestly. “It’s not really mine. It’s the family’s. But it’d be great if you came. It’ll be fun.”

  If those puppy-dog eyes had been focused on me, I’d have promised him the moon and anything else he wanted.

  But they weren’t.

  Mac smiled back. “What do you do there? Tasting?”

  Vanessa nodded. “That, and shopping, and the boys take their dirt bikes up into the hills.”

  “Really?” For the first time, Mac looked interested. “That sounds like fun.”

  “The shopping in Napa isn’t that great,” Vanessa began, but Mac cut her off.

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant the dirt bikes. What kind do you have?”

  “Honda five hundreds.”

  “I’ve not ridden anything bigger than a two-fifty.”

  “I’ll be happy to show you, then.” Brett’s smile would have melted chocolate.

  Mac’s would have made it boil.

  I just sat there. I doubted I’d ever be warm again.

  Chapter 6

  YOU’D BETTER WATCH
YOURSELF.”

  Mac hung the Prada—carefully, I was relieved to note—in her wardrobe. I put away my own dress and hung Gillian’s jacket from the top drawer handle of my dresser, ready to give to her in the morning. We’d made it back just in time for lights-out, and I didn’t want to risk running into Ms. Tobin in the corridor or on the stairs.

  “What do you mean?”

  She sat on the bed and I could feel her gaze under my skin, seeing right into my mind. “You look at him and it shows all over your face. He doesn’t know, but you can bet Vanessa does.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumbled as I dashed into the bathroom to hide my burning face.

  “All right,” she called equably. “Have it your way.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyhow.” The words forced themselves out, despite the fact that they had to contend with a toothbrush and toothpaste. “When he looks at the two of us, all he sees is you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She leaned on the bathroom door jamb as I bent over the sink to spit. “I know so. And since you brought it up, so does Vanessa.”

  “I thought they’d broken up.”

  “They have. But that doesn’t mean she’ll let the competition have him.” I rinsed my mouth. “At least your chances are better than mine.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I shrugged. She was the daughter of an earl. I was a scholarship student. She wore Prada. I wore last season’s sale finds or whatever I could borrow. If she couldn’t figure that out, she was a lot slower on the uptake than I’d given her credit for.

  “Of the two of us, I’d say you’re more his type,” she mused. “I mean, look at me. Hair like a dynamite explosion. Eyebrows I have to color in every day with an eyebrow pencil. Freckles. Now look at you. Gorgeous hair, a bum that would make Shakira jealous, and skin that behaves. I mean, seriously.”

  Heat scalded my face. “That’s the problem. He doesn’t look at me. Or if he does, he sees a disembodied hand holding out chemistry notes and that’s it.” I pushed past her. “I don’t want to talk about it. If he likes you, you’re welcome to him.”