Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

"Fine. Let's go find a good pair of heels after lunch," Summer says. "But you have to help me with the conversion rate. I think I might have overspent already."

"Like I can figure it out either. I'm just charging everything," Angela says. Rumor has it Angela comes equipped with a black, limitless AmEx card.

"I'll help you," Mindy says. "It's pretty simple."

It is simple, but whatever. There's a reason I'll be voted "Class Brain" and Summer will get "Major Catch," and it's not because she's good at math.

"What's this place called, anyway?" Summer asks.

"I don't know. It's at the end of Sloane Street, where it deadends at Hyde Park or something. We're supposed to meet up with the guys at the backdoor at nine," Angela says.

I can't believe this. They're crashing a nightclub while I'm stuck in the room. This isn't fair. Why can't I go too?

The waitress strolls up to take their order (Angela shocks me by ordering a cheeseburger), and I develop a game plan as I nervously jiggle a spare straw between my thumb and index finger. I'll saunter slowly by, and then when I look over and see Mindy, I'll act surprised. Then I'll ask her if she's gotten any reading done on Mr. Brown's summer reading list. If at all possible, I'll segue into how boring London has been so far, and maybe they'll invite me out with them. My plan is flawless.

My stomach is already twisting and flopping around in protest, but my mind is made up. I have to get this over with. I fish my mango lip gloss out of the pocket of my Levis and smear it on, and then smooth over my slightly frizzed-out blonde hair.

No time like the present. I slide quickly out of the leather booth and am almost to my feet when someone slams into me from behind.

Oomph. I'm knocked to my knees, but I manage to catch myself before face planting.

That's when I feel a chill seeping through my shirt, spreading so my entire back is covered in icy-coldness, and goose bumps pop up all over my arms. I twist my head and see a woman holding a half empty pitcher of iced tea, a black apron tied around her waist.

"Are you okay, love? Oh blimey, you're soaked! I'm so sorry. I was just walking by and you jumped out in front of me," she says, more to herself than me. "Let me help you up."

"Uh, I'm okay, really. No biggie."

I take a deep breath and look up at the trio of girls next to me. Angela is fighting a huge grin (and losing) but Mindy is just staring, her face blank of all expression. Summer is hiding behind a menu, her face turned downward so all I can see is her highlight-streaked dark hair.

"You okay?" Mindy asks.

"Smooth move," Angela says. "Very graceful."

Summer's tiny shoulders shake with silent giggles as my face nearly bursts into flames.

"Oh. Uh, I'm fine. I'm just... soaked. I, uh, I'm fine. Thanks."

And then I bail. There's no way I can talk to them now. Like they're going to invite me to the club? Ha. Right. I've just confirmed the reason they don't hang out with me. God, I'm a walking disaster.

I bolt through the cafe's side-door and duck into the hotel lobby bathroom, the closest door to the scene of my humiliation. I go into one of the fancy pink wallpapered stalls and sit down on a toilet for a few minutes, my face buried in my hands, trying to compose myself. There's a lump in my throat, but I won't cry because it's not worth it. This kind of stuff happens to me all the time, and tomorrow it won't sting so much. I'll block it from my memory like it never happened.

My mom has always told me I have two left feet, but I think that's giving me too much credit. I'm so clumsy I deserve my own cliche. I'm sure eventually falling flat on your face will be known as "pulling a Callie Montgomery."

I get up and leave the stall, the automatic toilet flushing behind me. I shuffle to the sinks, sniffling back the last few tears that still threaten.

Once in front of the gilded mirror, I twist around to survey the damage. My white tee is totally soaked through so you can see my black bra strap. The ends of my lifeless blonde hair aren't exempt from the iced tea treatment, either. They even smell like lemon.

I sigh and grip the edges of the sink as I stare back at my reflection. It's not like I'm horrendously ugly. I'm just kind of plain. Straight, narrow nose. Average cheekbones. Dull blue eyes. Could I be anymore average?

It's no wonder I've never even been kissed. My lips are sort of thin. Not full and kissable like Angela's.

The door swings open and I look up to see Mindy stride in. I yank back from the mirror so she won't know I've been staring at myself.

She's retying the knot in her charcoal-gray shrug when she sees me, and her glossy lips part — and then freeze like that — a tiny little o of surprise.

I drop my hands to my sides and try to ignore the prickling feeling of the wet shirt glued to my back.

"Oh," she says, and then stops at the door, halfway into the bathroom and halfway out, like she might get bubonic plague from me if she gets too close.

"Hey," I say. My hands are suddenly in need of a good washing, so I stare at the soap dispenser as I pump it five times, filling my palm with pink suds. I'm overly aware of her presence in my peripheral vision, and have to force my eyes to remain on the ultraimportant task of personal hygiene. Why is she staring at me like that?

Mindy finally walks into the bathroom stall as I switch the faucet off and reach for a few paper towels. I use them slowly, one square at a time, until she comes back out.

I toss the paper towels and pretend to fix a few strands of hair as she walks toward the sinks. She stops halfway there.

"Oh, urn, Callie?"

I perk up and turn to look at her. She's smiling at me.

This is it! My ticket out of the hotel.

"Um, I just wanted to, well — " she pauses for a second.

My heart is going crazy. I knew Mindy would come through if I gave her the chance. I just know we'd click if I could stop acting like a freak for more than five minutes.

She clears her throat. "You have toilet paper stuck to your shoe."

"Huh?" I look down at my flip-flops and the giant chunk of toilet paper trailing off the toe of one of them. "Oh. Uh, thanks."

I reach down, yank off the T.P., and then rush for the door without another word.

I make it out the front of the hotel before I even know what I'm doing. I haven't had the guts to leave without a "buddy" ever since the big lecture from Mrs. Bentley yesterday when we arrived. She swore if she caught any of us out alone she'd send us home.

But if I want to get back to my room, I have to walk right through the cafe again, my flip-flops slapping against my feet to announce my arrival. I'd have to walk past Angela and her sneer and Summer and her giggles.

I can't take any more of them right now. I have to get away and clear my head and figure out how I'm going to get through this trip.

I slow down when I realize I've gone several blocks on Sloane Street without noticing. Our fancy five-star hotel is situated in the best shopping district in London, or at least that's what Angela talked about the whole flight here.

Not that she was talking to me, of course. She was sitting between Summer and Mindy, in the row in front of me. I got a window seat next to an elderly man who snored the whole flight. Even though I pretended to be reading, I eavesdropped on them the whole time. I think Angela was listing the designers in alphabetical order; I got lost after Armani, Burberry, Chanel, Coach, and Dior.

I must be on the right track, because the waif-thin girls walking past me look like models, and I think I just saw the third foreign sports car in as many minutes.