How to Be Bad Page 3

  It is really, really not fun to be around.

  Still, here she is, standing in the lot behind the Waffle, waiting for me to say something. And she’s got to be hurt I told Mel instead of her about Brady not calling, but she’s not showing it except maybe in her eyes. There’s a crazy-strong yearning coming off her, how she’s jingling her keys and stalking this grease pit on her day off. Just to get me to let her give me a ride.

  I gotta love her. Plus, I want to see Brady so bad it’s making my eye twitch. And then she pulls this thing of pretending she wants to go with Mel, which I know she doesn’t at all; she’s just trying to make me say yes—and I can’t tease her anymore.

  “What the hell,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  Jesse wants to leave from the Waffle the minute our shifts are over, but I don’t want to show up at Brady’s dorm covered with grease and smelling like sausage patties and eggs. So we decide that Jesse’ll swing by my house at three thirty, and then we’ll go get Mel, who writes down her Fort Walton address on a napkin and takes my cell number. I think she wants a way to get in touch with me—in case Jesse tries to stand her up.

  I fry up about a zillion more eggs, and then bike home to find a note from my parents. They’ve gone to Babies “?” Us to buy stuff for Steve’s kid that’s not born yet. I know they won’t mind if I go to Miami so long as I tell them where I am and take my cell. Even if they do think it’s a bad idea to go out with Brady long distance, which they do, they don’t have the time or the energy to make a fuss about it. By the time you get to kid number six, your rules are pretty lax.

  Mom and Dad are electricians. They run their own business, Simonoff Electrics, though Mom took a lot of time off to have us. My eldest brother, Steve, is a chip off the block, now an apprentice electrician down in Broward. Joe Jr.’s in the navy, Tully’s a senior at Florida State in Tallahassee. Jay’s on summer break from community college, living with his girlfriend and hauling boxes at Wal-Mart for a couple months. And Penn, my favorite of all my brothers, graduated with Brady and moved in with a couple friends for the summer, living in a junky apartment across from the mall. He’s been working a prep station at P.F. Chang’s, which is like a giant step up from the Waffle in terms of restaurants, and come September, he’s going to culinary school three towns over.

  Anyway, he moved out in June. Which means, it’s just me and the folks.

  It sucks to be the one left behind. Next June I’ll be the one graduating, but still.

  I call Penn while I pack. “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Vicks.”

  “This house is silent like a morgue. I’m going to Miami to see my long-lost boyfriend.”

  “Didn’t Brady just leave?”

  “No, it’s been two weeks.”

  “Like I said, he just left. Can’t you live without him?”

  “Shut up,” I say, and mean it.

  Penn can tell, so he changes the topic. “How you getting down there?”

  “Jesse’s driving me.”

  “Jesse, the one you brought to Fourth of July?” he asks, all innocence.

  “Uh-huh. The one who always gives you free Coke when you come in the Waffle.”

  He chuckles. “Oh, yeah. Jesse.”

  “So, what are you doing?” I ask him.

  “I’m in Publix,” Penn answers. “I just got off the lunch shift.”

  “So did I. I’m totally sweaty and greasy.”

  “Me too!” he cries. “You wanna hear about the state of my T-shirt?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Disgusting is the state of my T-shirt. I’m in the detergent aisle right now, looking for a box of—oh, there it is. You think Tide is better, or All?”

  “Which has a prettier box?” I ask.

  “I don’t want a pretty box. I want a dude box.”

  “Uh-huh,” I deadpan. “You want a dude box of laundry detergent.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Okay,” he announces. “I made my decision.”

  “Whadja get?”

  “I’m not telling you. Mocking my dude detergent.”

  “When are you coming over to the house?”

  “Not till next weekend.”

  “Come sooner. Come for dinner Monday.”

  “Won’t you still be in Miami, following Brady around?”

  “Shut up! And no, I have to work Monday morning. So you gonna come over?

  “Nah, I got stuff to do.”

  “Come on, Penn. It’s so boring here. There’s no one around if you don’t come.”

  “Vicks, I gotta go. I’m at the checkout.”

  “Fine,” I say. “But don’t leave me alone in this house for too long or I’m gonna die of boredom. You won’t have a little sister to boss around when I’m dead, now will you?”

  “Guilt me later,” he says. “I gotta run.” And he clicks off.

  Does Penn really think that two weeks is “just left”? Does Brady? Because two weeks is a very long time in the Vicks department.

  I head to the pantry, which is overflowing. There are, like, eight sacks of potatoes in here. My parents think every meal should include a potato and they’re still buying food at Wal-Mart like they’ve got five boys to feed, instead of one girl who’s working all summer at a restaurant. I snag a pack of Fig Newtons and some chocolate snack cakes.

  Next, I open the fridge. Rummage past potato salad, leftover baked potatoes, and a Tupperware filled with a disgusting invention of my mother’s called Potatoes à la King. Hey, mangos. My favorite. I grab them.

  Jesse honks the Opel outside, I write a note to the proprietors of Simonoff Electrics—and I’m out.

  3

  MEL

  “HEY, NIK?” I ask, over the noise of the blow-dryer. “You almost done?”

  No answer.

  I knock on the door to our shared washroom. Again. “Hello?”

  “I’m doing my hair!”

  “Nikki, I really need to use the shower! Can you dry your hair in your room? Please?”

  “I need the mirror! Use Blake’s shower!”

  “Rosita’s cleaning it!”

  “Mummy’s?”

  “She’s in the bath.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Come on, Nikki, please?”

  “I’m almost done! Stop being annoying.”

  I sink onto the carpet. She’s been in there for forty-five minutes.

  Something soft hits me on the nose. I look up to see Blake bounding up the stairs in his climbing gear: weird shoes, climbing harness, gym shorts, T-shirt. Another harness is resting beside me on the carpet, where it landed after bouncing off my face.

  “Can you belay me?” he asks. He and my dad built a climbing wall on the back of the house.

  I shake my head. “Sorry, Blakester. I have plans.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going to Miami.”

  He stretches back his arm until it pops. “With who?”

  I try to sound nonchalant. “Friends from work.”

  “Really?”

  “Shocking, I know,” I say, and then force a laugh. My phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook since we moved here in January. Even Corey Perkins never called. Not that I expected him to.

  Tara from bio called a few times, but that was to ask about assignments, not plans. Of course I told her I was really busy with family stuff so she wouldn’t think I was pathetic. She must have known anyway, because she got her friend to invite me to her house party. I felt so awkward, worrying if everyone was wondering why the new girl was there, so I kept drinking wine coolers until I forgot about how uncomfortable I was, and until Corey’s tongue was in my mouth. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, he’s cute in a messy, stoner-boy kind of way, but I barely even know him. Now I’m the new girl who gets drunk and hooks up with random guys at parties.

  Awesome.

  Not that we hooked up, hooked up. I’ve never done it, though I’m not saving myse
lf or anything. Back in Montreal I might have done it with Alex Bonderman, if things had turned out differently. After five years of carpooling and my family basically adopting him since his parents were always in Paris or Hong Kong, after five years of me being secretly in love with him, he finally kissed me at eleven thirty on a Wednesday night when we were popping Halloween candy and studying for a math exam. His breath smelled like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. We spent the next few weeks making out whenever we found a second alone. In the stairwell at school. On our walk home from school. In my basement.

  Until he stopped coming over.

  I dropped by his house to see what was up and found my so-called best friend, Laurie Gerlach, in his room, her beige C-cup bra tangled on the wheels of his computer chair. They felt terrible, they said. But they liked each other.

  That was the week before Laurie’s sweet sixteen party. Which I went to, even though I shouldn’t have. I drank wine coolers in the club’s bathroom with some random people in my grade. It made watching Laurie and Alex’s slow dances to John Mayer a little more bearable.

  I should have known Alex didn’t really feel that way about me. I mean, come on, he belonged with someone like Laurie. Glossy hair and all that.

  And I should have known not to trust a friendship based on the two of us sporting identical sheepskin winter coats. Back in grade seven, Laurie had rushed up to me and screamed, “Omigod—look! We’re twins!” And there we were. Instant BFFs.

  I bet Laurie and Alex have done it by now.

  I don’t speak to either of them anymore. I rarely speak to anyone from Montreal. We’re still friends on MySpace but everyone always seems so busy.

  I bet Vicks has done it too. A girl like Vicks doesn’t date a guy for a year and not do it. I doubt Jesse has. Judging from the gold cross that dangles from her neck, I’d say she’s probably one of those chastity-belt-till-I’m-married girls. She could use a massage. Vicks is the opposite. All relaxed and “No problem, dude.” Nothing shakes her. If my boyfriend didn’t call me for two weeks, I would be under my covers whimpering.

  Vicks is not afraid of anything. Not boys. Not what people think.

  “Oh, come on, you can come belay me for five minutes,” Blake says now.

  “I can’t. I’m leaving in five minutes.” To go away with friends. Friends. Almost. I smile. I can’t help it. Vicks opened up to me today, telling me about Brady and everything. Sure, Jesse doesn’t seem to love me, but she invited me along, didn’t she?

  Fine, I invited myself along. And basically offered to pay for the trip if they’d take me.

  Oh, God. I can’t believe I did that. Tried to buy friends.

  “Hey, Nikki!” Blake yells, banging on the door. “Come belay me!”

  She hollers back, “No way, pipsqueak!”

  Nikki hates the climbing wall on the back of our house. As does our mother. Mum worries daily that Blake is going to bust his head open, but Dad’s an adventure junkie like Blake—the two of them got scuba certified in Aruba two years ago. There wasn’t much Nikki or Mum could do since it was three against two. I voted for the wall, even though I’m too uncoordinated to use it. It makes Blake happy, so what the hell?

  Most things around here happen by popular demand. Grilled salmon or wheat-crust pizza for dinner, Honolulu or Mexico for winter break, BMW X3 or the convertible as the new kids’ car. Blake wanted the truck; Nikki was obsessed with the convertible. I didn’t really care. But like with the climbing wall, I was the swing vote. I had a vision of myself on the highway, the top down, windswept hair…and then I had a vision of the car flipping over and my head being cracked open. I chose the X3.

  I’m often the swing vote. The swing sibling. That’s what I called myself to Dr. Kaplan, the psychologist my parents sent the three of us to, to help us adjust to starting a new high school in January. Blake as a freshman, me as a sophomore, and Nikki as a senior. Kaplan laughed when I called myself that. She didn’t really get it, though. She said that the swing vote is the power seat. I tried to explain that being told to choose between Nikki’s choice A and Blake’s choice B makes me powerless, because I don’t have a choice C. She asked me if being the middle child made me feel insecure or like I didn’t belong, and I thought, Well, yeah, Nikki’s the pretty, 4.0, popular one, Blake’s the rebel baby, and I’m just…the other one. The tiebreaker. But then Nikki started talking about how she felt she didn’t belong in Florida and then she was off and running. Everything is always about Nikki.

  Blake rolled his eyes at me, and then we both almost cracked up. I gave him a “don’t start” look, because Nikki would have gone mental if we laughed. She hates when we gang up on her. Blake got the message and kept a straight face.

  Blake’s the only one who understands why I wanted to work at the Waffle House. Nikki and Mum couldn’t grasp why I’d be a hostess, why I didn’t want to work at Dad’s office, like Nikki, where I could choose my own hours. Or—judging from the fact that Nikki is doing her hair in the middle of the afternoon—lack of hours. But at Dad’s, everyone would know that I was Mr. Fine’s daughter. People would be nice to my face because I was their boss’s kid, but then whisper about how I was just some spoiled rich girl behind my back. No, thanks. I’d rather hostess at the Waffle House. Sure, occasionally having to bus tables is not good for one’s spa manicure, but I like that no one even notices me. The customers barely know I’m there. I tried to explain that to Jesse when she asked me about why I was there, but I don’t think it came out right.

  I hope Abe gets my note about missing my shift tomorrow. I apologized about the short notice, of course.

  I can’t believe I invited myself along. But when Jesse mentioned the trip, all I could think about was that I wanted to go with them. Vicks is so strong and cool and Jesse is so sure of herself all the time. Plus they’re both so different from everyone I knew back home, and from everyone at Rawling Prep. Vicks would never stop by Brady’s to find Jesse’s bra tangled on the wheels of his computer chair. And not just because Jesse’s all Christian conservative. They’re loyal. They trust each other.

  I want that. With them.

  I lied about wanting to see that alligator.

  On the safari we went on in June, we had to sit in an open Jeep, watching four cheetahs rip a gazelle apart limb by limb. Blake and Dad thought seeing a kill was the highlight of the trip. We had driven around for four hours searching for one.

  I mentioned that to Vicks once, when I was trying to think of something interesting to talk to her about. She arched an eyebrow. “That’s some wacked shit,” she said.

  Tell me about it. Blood. And skin. And internal organs everywhere. I had to cover my eyes with my hands.

  Last week I dreamed about that drive. Except I was the gazelle.

  Nikki finally opens the door.

  “How does it look?” she asks, fluffing her hair and blocking the entrance.

  “Perfect, but I need to get in there.”

  “Look how straight I got it. Do you believe? In this heat? You have to try my antifrizz gel. It’s amazing. I’m obsessed.”

  “Will do. Can I get in now? Please?”

  She sweeps past me. “Don’t be too long, I need to do my eyes.”

  Postshower, I yank the sliding doors open, climb out of the Jacuzzi tub, and wrap a hot, fluffy, lemon-scented towel around my body. Rosita must have just done a wash. Then I hurry to my room to find Nikki riffling through my closet.

  “I’m borrowing your Alice + Olivia sundress, ’kay?”

  “Sure. But didn’t Mummy get you one too?”

  “Yeah, but yours is nicer. The stripes on mine make me look fat.”

  “They do not.” Nikki is being ridiculous, because she weighs only five pounds more than her ideal weight, max. She has big boobs, a mane of gorgeous shiny blond hair, and has always been considered one of the best-looking girls in her grade. Boys love her. Honestly, they fight over her. Even though she was the new girl in school, she had five invitations to senior
prom.

  Nonetheless, Nikki is always on a diet. As is Mum. Since the two of them are currently obsessed with the South Beach diet, we keep having weird things like cauliflower purée that’s pretending to be mashed potato.

  Nikki pulls my dress off its hanger and examines the tag. “Ugh. It’s a size two. You’re such a rexi.”

  I hug my towel. I hate when she calls me that. If I eat the cauliflower or whatever South Beach thing they’re eating, I’m anorexic; if I sneak out with Blake and Dad for McDonald’s, I’m a traitor. “Nikki, I have to get ready. I’m going out with friends.”

  “You have friends?” Her phone line rings and she runs off to get it. Nikki is very busy with her Florida friends, her Montreal friends, and her future college friends.

  I open my drawer to get dressed. My white cotton underwear are all folded to look like little envelopes, courtesy of Rosita. I pull on a pair of black shorts and a tissue-soft white T-shirt that Mum must have just bought me because I’ve never seen it before. Then I yank a red carry-on bag out of my closet and start tossing stuff inside. Jeans, shorts, a few shirts. Running shoes. In case I have to take off in a hurry. Ha-ha. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Fun even.

  I hear a car pull up outside and separate my blinds to see the world’s oldest two-door station wagon in our circular driveway. With the engine still running, Jesse is in the driver’s seat staring up at the house while Vicks is checking out the X3. I open the window and yell down, “Sorry, I’ll be three secs!” I grab two towels from the linen closet—one for showering and one in case we go to the beach—and then run to the toiletries closet and pick out a travel toothbrush and some hotel-size bottles of conditioner, shampoo, and body wash. I stuff them in my bag and knock on Mum’s bathroom door. “I’m off!”

  “Where are you going again?” she asks through the door and over the sound of the elevator music she’s playing in there.

  “To Miami. With friends from work.”

  “From the Waffle Shop?”

  “Waffle House, Mum, Waffle House. I keep telling you that.” It’s like she has a mind block.