Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

“That’s disgusting, but no. It was more like two actors rehearsing a role, hoping they were getting it right. Like, the whole time my lips were moving my head was thinking, That’s it? You waited fifteen years for this?”

“Yikes.”

“Tell me,” she says. “But here’s the thing, do you think maybe it was just nerves? I mean, do you think I should try it again?”

And just as I’m about to answer, I get a new call. So I put Abby on hold, only to find Teresa on the other line.

“Hey,” she says. “What’re you doing?”

“Talking to Abby,” I tell her, hoping that will speed it along.

“Dump her, I need to talk to you.”

I roll my eyes. Apparently, now that she’s got some dirt on me, she figures the usual pleasantries no longer apply, i guess she forgot how I saw her too. “She called first,” I finally say.

“Fine. Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to come by and hang out. You know, so we can study.” She laughs. “I hear you’re really good at math.”

I close my eyes and sigh. Teresa can really be a bitch, but apparently I’m the only one who knows it. “I’m busy,” I say, anxious to get back to Abby.

“Yeah? Well, I think you might want to clear your calendar and try to stop by because Marc’s coming over.”

I just sit there, silent and still.

“In fact, he should be here within the hour.”

Why is Marc going to Teresa’s? I mean, they’re not friends. At least not that I know of. And even though I could probably just ask and get it over with, I’m more than a little reluctant to give her the satisfaction. “We’ll see,” I finally say, trying to sound distracted and uninterested. “I’ve got a lot going on today.”

“Door’s open,” she says, laughing in place of good-bye.

“What the hell? You were gone forever! I almost hung up,” Abby says, not even trying to hide her annoyance.

For a second I think about telling her; it would be good to get a second opinion. But just as quickly, I’m over it. “Sorry,” I say.

“Omigod, was it Parker?” she asks, her voice free of anger and now taking on a lower, more gossipy tone. “Is he begging you to come back?”

“Hardly,” I say, my mind still reeling with thoughts of Teresa and Marc and what they could possibly have in common. “From what you said, it sounds like he’s already moved on.”

“So who was it? I waited for over an hour. I deserve to know.”

“You’re totally exaggerating, but it’s not like it’s a secret. It was Teresa. She wants me to stop by,” I say, heeding the number one rule about lying (well, maybe number two, after don’t get caught) and how it’s always safer not to stray too far from the truth.

“Don’t do it!” Abby says, sounding completely ominous. “I’m totally serious, 60 not go over there.”

“Why?” I ask, striving for blase, but nailing panic.

“You should’ve seen the place when we left, I bet it’s totally trashed by now. She probably wants you to help clean up. You know, payback for cutting out early.”

I close my eyes and sigh in relief, glad that Abby’s still unaware of at least some of my secrets. “Okay, listen, I should go,” I tell her. “It’s getting late, and I haven’t even showered yet.” I gaze into the mirror and scowl at my limp, boring hair.

“No, you can’t go until you answer my question. Should I give Jax a second chance or not?”

I drop back onto my bed, grab two pillows, and prop them under my head. “I don’t know, Ab. I mean, do you want to give him another shot?”

’That’s why I called you, to help me sort that out.”

“Well, what does Jenay say?”

“Jenay? Forget Jenay. I mean, I love her, we all love her, but between you and me, Jenay is now a pep club member. She also believes in pixie dust, pots of gold, unicorns, four-leaf clovers, guardian angels, and leprechauns. She thinks Mickey Mouse is a real person. That’s why I called you. Because you’re my only levelheaded friend.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Then forget it,” I tell her. “It’s either there or it’s not. And it shouldn’t take GPS to locate it.”

She sighs. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” And then before she hangs up she goes, “Oh hey, what’s that song you were humming under your breath?”

I sit up suddenly, my knuckles going white as my fingers grip the phone.

“You know, the one that’s all da da dee, do da, da la la la? What is that? It’s so haunting.”

I listen to her rendition of the song I fell asleep to last night, totally unaware that I’d been humming it that whole time. “Urn, I don’t even know the name. I think I heard it somewhere on the radio, or maybe I dreamt it or something,” I say, laughing nervously, hoping she’ll believe me.

“Okay, well, gotta run,” she says. “But I’m serious about avoiding Teresa’s. If I were you I’d stay away.”

By the time I get to Teresa’s, I know I’m too late. And it’s not like it took me all that long to shower and dress, it was more the pacing, the hand wringing, and the pro-and-con-list making that ate up all my free time.

There’s an old beat-up motorcycle leaning precariously on its kickstand, and one of those jacked-up, overaccessorized, overcompensating, fully loaded trucks parked right beside it. But no blue Camaro. And since neither of those vehicles looks remotely like anything Teresa or her parents would be willing to drive, I’m feeling more than a little anxious.

I hesitate at the door, thinking I should just forget about knocking, cut my losses, and head home. And just as I turn to do exactly that, the front door swings open as Teresa smiles and says, “I saw you from the living room window.” Then she wiggles her fingers, motioning me inside.

She leads me past the formal dining room, which looks no worse for the wear, and through the ultramodern kitchen that’s shiny, clean, and pristine. And even though the house is showing absolutely no sings of a wild night of out-of-control teenage debauchery, Teresa’s tight ripped jeans and tiny black tube top are giving off a whole other vibe.

So by the time we get to the den and I see those two overage delinquents sprawled across the couch, let’s just say I’m not the least bit surprised.

“You remember Tom and Jason?” she says, nodding at the losers I’d met that day in the park.

I just look at them, wondering why she lured me here, but determined not to show any fear.

“Beer?” she asks, raising a sweaty bottle in offering. Martha Stewart, look out.

But I just shake my head and drop onto an overstuffed chair, doing my best to ignore asshole Tom who, once again, seems dead set on staring at me.

“So, did you go to her little high school soiree?17 Tom asks, tilting his head back as he guzzles his beer, his eyes still fixed on mine.

But before I can answer Teresa smiles and goes, “She stopped by, but she didn’t stay long.”

“Hot date?” he asks, lighting up a cigarette that Jason immediately grabs and breaks in half.

“No smoking in the palace, asshole,” Jason says, taking the broken pieces and shoving them into his beer before chucking Tom hard on the back of his head.

I watch as Tom makes a face but still cowers away, and I feel like I’m in one of those weird art-school films. The kind filled with rain, symbolism, and dream sequences that you can’t understand. I mean, on the surface, Teresa’s probably one of the luckiest people I know. It’s like she’s living the teenage dream. She’s got two parents who are still together, she lives in a beautiful, huge home, she has a walk in-closet that’s jammed full of super-cute, designer-label clothes, she’s pretty, she’s popular, she gets good grades, and she’s had the same boyfriend since the end of eighth grade who everyone unanimously agrees is totally hot. Heck, she even has real-deal Hollywood credentials, having starred in a baby-food commercial back when she was two, followed by some small, mostly nonspeaking roles over the last few years. Which also makes her one of the few people who can actually list on her Web page “model, singer, actress,” and only the singer part is a lie.