Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

Then finally, after like the sixth time I thought I heard a car on the drive, there really was a car on the drive, and he looked at me and said, “Cruella’s home.”

And I go, “You call your mom Cruella?”

But he just laughed and led me back to the house.

“Mother,” he said, leaning in for the air cheek kiss just like you see rich people do in movies. “This is Zoë.”

She looked at me, her eyes starting at my shoes and working their way up to my forehead.

She’s tall, thin, and blond, just like she appears in all those society-page pictures. Only in person, she’s really blond. Like Texas blond, almost stripper blond. And when her eyes met mine they narrowed, and suddenly her face went from faded beauty to mean. And believe me, the artist who painted her portrait that hangs in the stairwell failed to capture that.

“Well aren’t you a beauty,” she said.

And even though that might sound like a compliment to those who weren’t around to witness it, trust me, it wasn’t. Her voice was hard, her eyes were slits, and her lips were pursed, which are pretty much all the signs for hate at first sight.

“Where’d you find this one?” she asked, glancing at Marc as her heavily ringed fingers sorted through the stack of mail.

I just stood there feeling small and stupid and wishing I’d just listened to Marc when he warned me, wishing I hadn’t pushed him so much.

“We go to school together,” he said.

“Is that right?” She looked at me again, up once, down once. Then her eyes flicked away, and I knew I’d just been discarded. “Has William returned?” she asked.

Marc said no.

“We’ll start without him then. I’m going upstairs to change. Tell Celia to bring me my drink.”

Dinner was a nightmare. Going from bad to worse with each passing drink. Things improved slightly when William (stepdad #3) came home, but only because that gave her a new target.

I feel sorry for Marc. I mean, before his mom got home, it all looked so amazing and glamorous. I mean, with

the grand staircase, the marble floors, the guesthouse, and the infinity pool. I was actually feeling a little bit jealous, and also kind of judging him for not appreciating it more. But the second she came home, the whole picture changed. And by the time it was over, I just wanted to go home.

But the worst part is, it doesn’t make me feel closer to Marc, like I want to help him get through it or anything.

It actually makes me want to run away.

Marc and I just went almost ten days without seeing each other, and I can still hardly believe it. I mean, it’s not like we actually broke up or anything, since we talked on the phone and stuff. I guess it’s more like things got so intense so fast that we both feel we need a little cool down. Or at least I do. I’m not really sure how he feels about it, since it’s not like anything was ever actually said.

I mean, after that awful dinner, well, I guess I just started thinking about how I’ve ditched all my friends, and it made me feel bad. It’s like, just because Marc likes being a loner doesn’t mean I do too. So basically I just spent the last ten days working during the day and hanging with Carly and Paula at night.

At first they gave me a bunch of shit for ditching them like that. But then after, it was like we’d been hanging out the whole entire summer and I’d never really left. I didn’t say anything about meeting Marc’s mom though. I mean, of course they asked if Id been to the house and stuff, cuz pretty much everyone always wants to know about that. And since I didn’t want to lie I said yes. But then I pretty much left it at that, and any details I did give were totally vague.

Anyway, hanging with them just made me realize how much I missed them. It also made me realize how I’m way too young to keep getting so tied down all the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still totally and completely love Marc. But sometimes I just need to hang out and have a little fun with my friends.

All day yesterday I was at Carly’s, setting up my very own page on this Web site where you post pictures of yourself, list all of your favorite things like bands, movies, etc., and try to collect as many friends as possible so you can feel all popular and famous or whatever. And since Carly’s been on there for practically ever, she’s been bugging me this whole entire time to get on there too, so I finally gave in.

At first it seemed kind of dumb since I can just call her on her cell if I need to leave a message or even send a picture. But then she goes, “What if my ringer’s off?”

So I said, “Then I’ll text you.”

And she went, “Forget it. You have no idea how much better this is, because then everyone can see what you write and what you’re doing and saying and stuff.”

Which, to be honest, also sounded pretty lame. I mean, I know it’s probably old fashioned to even write in a journal when the rest of the world is blogging. But maybe I don’t want all these strangers to know what I’m thinking, saying, and doing, you know?

But then she said, “Uh, hello? What do you think it’s gonna be like when you’re famous? I mean, you think Jessica Simpson gets any privacy?”

She had a point.

Then she goes, “You always talk about how you want to be a model, or actress, or whatever, but if you’re that attached to your privacy then maybe you should find a new dream.”

So, long story short, I signed on, decorated my space, uploaded some photos, and even though it practically took all day, now I totally get it. Now I totally get what she’s been talking about because it’s so completely addicting! It’s like, within seconds of uploading my first few photos I had like a hundred people asking to be my friend! Okay, maybe most of them were guys, but whatever. And the thing is, all I used are these three stupid little cell phone photos that Paula snapped of me one day when I was laying by her pool.

In one, I’m in my white bikini and I’m laying on the lounger, drinking a beer. In another I’m pretty much doing the same thing, only smiling. And in the third I’m standing up and smiling with my top off. (But only because I didn’t want strap marks, and my hands are strategically placed so it’s not like you can see anything.)

And I’m thinking, Jeez, if I get all this attention just from these cheesy little cell phone photos, who knows what could happen if I posted some really good, like really professional photos there. You know something sophisticated and classy but a little bit sexy, and yet still kind of innocent too. Since Carly says that all the big New York and L.A. agents are always trolling around on there, scoping for fresh, new faces.

I’m not sure how she actually knows all that, but still, it sounds very, very likely.

But then she also said that I probably shouldn’t tell

Marc because he’ll definitely totally freak.

And even though I just rolled my eyes and refused to comment, I’m actually thinking she’s right.

When I close Zoë’s diary I feel a little sick. Though I know I have no one to blame but myself. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t already lived through all this. So I shouldn’t be surprised where it leads.

I shove it back under my mattress, finished with it for now, not willing to claim it in any way.

But at least I know that Marc didn’t lie. Not to my parents, and not to the police. He’d stuck by his story the entire time, never once wavering, even though his alibi has always been shaky.

He said he was waiting at the park, down by the lake, where they always used to sit. That he just hung out, doing his homework, and waiting ’til well after dark. But when she didn’t come back, he tried calling her cell a bunch of times, only she never answered. And since her phone was never recovered, it took a few days for the cops to confirm that.