Rules for Secret Keeping Read online

  “I hope not,” I say.

  I thought a photo shoot for a national magazine would be glamorous, but so far all I’ve been doing is sitting on this couch with Nikki while we watch Candace get her picture taken. Even though there are twenty-five finalists, it’s just the three of us here. Nikki lives in New Jersey, and Candace lives in Manhattan, so it makes sense that we’d all get our pictures taken together at a central location.

  Javier’s studio is right in midtown, about three blocks from where the train from Stamford dropped me off at Grand Central. My sister, Taylor, met me at the train station in Stamford, because apparently my parents decided I’m not old enough to ride the train by myself. Taylor is seventeen. She is also not much of a chaperone, since she spent the whole forty-five-minute train ride talking on the phone with her friend Amanda about some homecoming princess scandal. Then, when we got off the train, she continued to talk on the phone for the whole walk to the studio. And finally, once we got here, she plopped herself down on a chair in the lobby and motioned for me to go ahead. She didn’t even take the time to enjoy the midtown crowds. I know you’re supposed to hate the crowds in New York, but I love them. The smells, the sounds, the people, all the honking. There’s an air of excitement that you definitely don’t get in Connecticut.

  “I definitely cannot pose like that,” Nikki says now, watching as Candace pouts at the camera seductively. Geez. For someone who’s interested in Darfur, Candace is definitely being a little, uh, suggestive. She’s also wearing boots that I’m pretty sure are Gucci. I’m also pretty sure that for the money she spent on those Gucci boots, she could have probably done a lot of good in Darfur.

  “I’m sure it’ll be okay,” I tell Nikki. “As long as you smile, you should be fine.”

  “Thanks,” Nikki says, then frowns. “Um, your eyebrow is—”

  But before she can finish her sentence, Javier’s assistant, M (seriously, that’s her name, just M—when I asked her what it stood for, she gave me a totally weird look, like, Duh, it’s just M), comes running over, her stilettos clacking on the marble floor. She’s all in a panic. “What is going on with your eyebrows?” she demands.

  M already wants to kill me because I keep asking her for water. On account of the fact that it’s so hot. And all the makeup they’ve slapped on me is running off my face. I know this because I can feel it, and because M keeps saying, “Ewww, her makeup is running off her face!” in between bringing me plastic cups of warm water.

  “Oh,” I say, pleased that she’s noticed my new brows. “I just got them done. Professionally.” M could use a trip to the salon herself, if you ask me. Her eyebrows are very thin, like two strands of spaghetti.

  “Well, they’re dripping off of you,” she says, throwing her hands up in the air. Then she produces a mirror from her pocket and shows me my reflection. She’s right. The sweat from being in the hot studio is making my eyebrows melt off. Well, not literally melt off. More like the eyebrow pencil is melting, leaving a black line down the side of my face. M pulls an eyebrow pencil out of the air and starts fleshing my eyebrows back in.

  “Samantha!” Javier calls. “We’re ready for you.”

  “That was fun,” Candace says, slipping by me. She’s practically skipping. She flops down on the cream-colored couch and slides her legs (and Gucci boots) out in front of her. “Your turn, Secret Agent.” Candace thinks it’s super witty and fun to call me “Secret Agent” after I told her what my business was. She’s not saying it in a nice way, either, but in more of a “I can’t believe you pass secrets and I’m trying to save a country and we’re somehow both in this room” kind of way. I considered calling her “Darfur Girl” but that doesn’t really work, now, does it?

  “Good luck,” Nikki says. She gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  I step over to the chair that’s set up in front of a gray backdrop.

  “Now, just be natural,” Javier instructs. He holds up the camera and takes a shot.

  “Oh!” I say, surprised. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready.” I sit down in the chair, relax my face and give him my most natural-looking smile.

  “Over here, Samantha!” Javier instructs. “Look at the camera.” Oopsies. I try to look right at the camera, but every time the flash goes off, I blink. So then M comes over and moves my head over to the side, in a very uncomfortable position that I guess is supposed to look good on film, but feels like my head is going to pop off my neck. I try to smile, even though I feel like killing someone.

  I try to lean over the way Candace did. I even throw a kiss to the camera. But Javier doesn’t say “beautiful” or “fabulous” or anything even remotely resembling positive feedback. He doesn’t really say anything except “Move to the right” and “Stop doing that” and “What are you doing with your lips?” when I try to blow the kiss.

  “Okay, okay,” he says fifteen minutes later. He sighs and runs his fingers through his dark hair. “Let’s take a break, shall we?”

  “Good idea,” I say, relieved. Until I realize that probably the reason he wants to take a break is because I’m messing up. I step out from under the lights and fan myself with my hand. Why do they keep it so hot in here? They should totally have a fan or something, to blow air at us to cool us off. And give us that cute hair-in-the-wind look. I catch Nikki watching me from the couch near the wall, and I wave her over. Candace is still lounging on the couch, sipping a Red Bull Sugarfree and looking cool as a cucumber.

  “Can you tell what I’m doing wrong?” I ask Nikki. “They don’t seem to be too pleased with my progress.” I catch a glimpse of Javier over toward the side of the room. He and M are having a huddled discussion. Every so often one of them looks over at me. I think I catch one of them saying “hopeless,” but I can’t be sure.

  “Hmmm,” Nikki says, following my eyes to the little conference in the corner. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should try not to smile like that.”

  “Like what?” I ask, my hands flying to my face.

  “Like . . . stiff.”

  Hmm. I practice trying to relax my face. Smile. Frown. Smile. Frown. Smile.

  “Also, why do you keep touching your face?”

  “I’m afraid my eyebrows are going to melt,” I confess.

  “Don’t worry,” Nikki says. “They’re fine.” She pulls a lip liner out of her purse. “And maybe this will help with the smile.” She starts smearing it on my lips.

  “I don’t think anything’s going to help,” I say sadly as she works. “I’m not trying to smile weird. I always have problems with getting my picture taken.” I look around nervously. M is not going to be pleased about the lip liner, especially since I already gave her a little bit of grief about the makeup. After she’d caked a bunch on me, I said, “I think I have enough makeup on now,” and she rolled her eyes and told me that when they finally did the shoot, it would look like I had nothing on at all. I guess it has to do with stage makeup, like how actors wear a ton, but when you’re watching TV, you can’t tell. Even so, my face feels like it’s going to fall off.

  “Hold still,” Nikki instructs. “I’m trying to make your lips go up a little bit at the ends, so that it looks like you’re smiling normally.”

  “Thankth,” I say around the lip liner. “But won’t it make my lips too red?”

  “What would you rather have the nation seeing?” Nikki says. “Red lips or a weird smile?”

  “Red lips,” I say. But I’m not sure. I wish my mom was here, so that I could get a second opinion. Or even Taylor. But my mom had to work the night shift (she’s a nurse, and so she’s always working crazy hours). And of course Taylor’s in the lobby, probably texting about the homecoming crisis. Figures I’d be abandoned in my time of need.

  “There,” Nikki says. She holds out the tissue. “Blot,” she instructs. I blot my lips on the tissue. “Now take a sip of this.” She holds out a bottle of water with a straw in it, and I take a few sips. The cold liquid feels sweet and good on my throat. I can feel little beads of swea
t starting to pool around my forehead. I hope those won’t show up on film.

  “Are we ready?” Javier asks, clapping his hands and walking back over to where I’m sitting. He looks annoyed. Probably he wants to get home to his family. Nikki scurries back over to the side of the room.

  “Is this the longest photo shoot you’ve ever done?” I ask him, trying to lighten the mood. I concentrate on trying to keep my head in the position M put me in. I smile and wiggle my eyebrows. Then I lean over and tilt my face toward the camera.

  “No,” he says. Click, click. My eyes are watering from the flash, but I force myself to keep them open. “Some celebrities insist I shoot them over and over again until I get it right.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You’ve shot celebrities?” Wait until I tell Emma I had a celebrity photographer! How fab! I stand up and put my hands on my hips, looking right into the camera.

  “What’s all over your mouth?” M asks. She looks panicked, like she’s just been called down to the principal’s office or something. She grabs a tissue out of her pocket.

  “It’s lip liner,” I say, turning my head away so that she won’t try to wipe it off my lips. I’ve definitely decided that I would much rather have red lips than have a weird-looking smile on my face.

  “It’s okay,” Javier says, snapping away. “It will look good on film and even out the smile. Whoever did that is a genius, love.”

  I shoot a grateful smile to Nikki, and she gives me a thumbs-up. I twist and turn and smile and jut my hip and sit and stand and listen to everything Javier is telling me to do.

  “That’s a wrap on Samantha,” Javier says a little while later.

  I’m exhausted. And I think I sprained my ankle trying to do one of the poses. “What?” I ask. “Already? Did we get a good one?”

  “You did fine,” Javier says, motioning to Nikki to take her place in front of the camera. Hmm. That doesn’t sound too promising. I don’t want to do fine. I want to be fabulous, glamorous, and wonderful. But I guess that’s hard to do when you’re wearing pink Skechers and not Gucci boots. Plus I suppose I’ll have to settle for it, since M is ushering me out from in front of the camera and over toward the door.

  “Good luck,” I say to Nikki as I breeze by her.

  “Thanks,” she says, taking her place in front of the camera.

  “Later, Secret Agent,” Candace says. She’s texting someone on her phone. I don’t think people in Darfur can afford cell phones. Shouldn’t she be abstaining if she’s so worried about them? And why is she hanging around? Isn’t her photo shoot over?

  “Oh, good,” Taylor says when I get to the lobby. She slaps her phone shut. “You’re finished. What’s all over your lips?”

  “Lip liner.” I don’t bother mentioning that the reason I’m wearing it is because I’m the most unphotogenic person, like, ever. And then I have a thought. “Hey, Taylor,” I say excitedly. “Do you think they’re going to airbrush me? Like they do with all the top models?”

  “I doubt they airbrush in the tween mags.” Taylor rolls her brown eyes, like tween mags are about as relevant as iPods without video screens.

  She then proceeds to spend the whole train ride back to Stamford on the phone with her boyfriend. His name is Ryan, and he is very, very cute. Last year I kind of sort of had this crush on him, because whenever he came over, he would watch the Disney Channel with me while he waited for Taylor to get ready for wherever they were going.

  If I had a little sister, and Jake was my boyfriend, I wonder if he’d watch the Disney Channel with her while I got ready for our dates. I’d be up in my room, drying my hair and trying on five different outfits, and he’d be downstairs, totally pretending to be into the latest Disney shows. And of course he wouldn’t really want to watch Disney, but he’d know it was a nice thing to do for my sister, so he would. Thinking of Jake taking me on a date makes my face start to feel hot, so I press it against the window of the train so Taylor doesn’t notice.

  When our train pulls in, my dad’s car is waiting for us right outside the station.

  “How was it?” he asks as we pile in. He slides his BlackBerry into his shirt pocket. My dad is always on his phone after hours, since he works with a lot of stocks and things, and the markets are open in other places when they’re not open here, because there are time differences.

  “It was fun,” I say, settling into the backseat and buckling my seat belt. Taylor always gets the front, because she’s older. I’m not sure who made that rule. Probably Taylor. She’s big on making rules. Especially ones that make no sense.

  “And how was the first day of school?” my dad asks, turning his car onto the highway. “Any potential for new business?”

  “Loads,” I say. “There are so many new kids, it’s crazy. Oh, and Daphne made me some posters so I can start advertising.”

  “That’s wonderful,” my dad says, “But perhaps you should look into digital media to advertise. Everyone—music companies, television and movie studios—they’re all looking to digital and social media as the wave of the future.”

  “There’s a digital media class at school,” I say, “Maybe I’ll get into it.”

  “Does anyone care how my first day of school went?” Taylor asks, pouting her lips and pretending to be upset. Honestly, the only reason my dad asked me first was because Taylor tends to monopolize conversations. Once you get her going, she won’t shut up.

  “How was your first day of school, Taylor?” my dad asks. His BlackBerry starts beeping, and he checks the screen and then sends it to voicemail.

  “Horrible,” Taylor says. “They’re going to be voting for homecoming court next week, which gives me no time to campaign.” She turns around and looks at me. “Maybe while you’re at it, you can see how digital media might help me to win homecoming princess, since Julia Peterson came back from summer vacation with a nose job, and everyone is going to vote for her.”

  I settle back into my seat and listen to my dad explain to Taylor that she shouldn’t mock digital media, and how she could launch a web campaign, and how he’s sure that Julia Peterson didn’t really get a nose job. To which my sister replies, “Trust me, Dad, her nose is, like, an inch shorter.” So I decide it’s time to pull my iPod out of my bag and listen to music for the rest of the ride home.

  I’m so caught up in the music that I don’t realize that Tom’s outside when my dad pulls up in front of our house to drop me off. He’s on the front lawn, raking leaves and wearing a baseball hat.

  My dad slows the car to a stop in front of the house, his jaw set in a straight line. He does not turn into the driveway. Taylor, oblivious to the situation, keeps blabbering on about homecoming.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say, not mentioning the fact that my dad has refused to pull into the driveway. I start to fumble with my seat belt.

  “You can at least wait until he pulls into the driveway, Samantha; I mean, you don’t have to be in that much of a—” She trails off as she sees Tom raking in the front yard. His back is to us, sparing me from more of a scene. The thing is, my dad doesn’t like Tom. Like, really, really doesn’t like him. Even though my parents have been divorced for five years, he just hates the idea of my mom being remarried. Weird, right?

  “Bye, Dad,” I say brightly.

  “Bye, Dad,” Taylor says. She’s out of the car and halfway up the driveway before I’m even done with my seat belt.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart,” my dad says.

  I slam the door and run up to the house. I can hear the slight squeal of tires as my dad pulls away.

  “Oh, Samantha!” Tom says. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Really?” I say. “My dad just dropped us off.”

  “Oh, good,” he says. “How was the photo shoot? Must have been interesting, eh?”

  “You have no idea,” I say, and head into the house to call Daphne.

  THE NEXT MORNING, EMMA AND CHARLIE are waiting for me at my locker. Emma’s holding one of the
flyers Daphne and I put up yesterday. “Do you really pass secrets?” she asks.

  “Ye-ess,” I say slowly. I spin the dial on my locker. I hope they don’t think it’s babyish. The secret-passing, I mean. There are two secrets waiting for me in my locker. One of the secrets is for Ronald Hughes, the kid from my elementary school who’s crazy. Ronald actually gets a lot of secrets passed to him—usually they say things like “Ronald, YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR TREE” and “Ronald, please return the eraser you took out of my desk” and “Ronald, I think it would be funny if you farted during the Presidential Physical Fitness Test in gym today!”

  The other secret is for someone named Kayleigh Mills. I have no idea who that is. Occupational hazard, I suppose, of starting to expand my business. “Hey,” I say, “do you guys know who Kayleigh Mills is?”

  “Are those the secrets?” Charlie asks, leaning in to get a better look. The tips of her long hair brush against the note. “Who sent that to her?”

  “I dunno,” I say.

  “Let’s open it!” Emma says excitedly.

  “I can’t open them.” I clutch the notes closer to me, just in case they try to pry them out of my hands. Wow. I never thought of that. I could totally get secretjacked. Like carjacked, only with secrets.

  “You don’t open them? Like, ever?” Emma looks shocked.

  “No way,” I say. “I can’t, it would ruin my business.”

  “How much money do you make?” Charlie asks.

  “It depends. This morning I only made two dollars.” She looks disappointed. “But last year I was making tons, especially around Valentine’s Day.”

  I spot Ronald heading down the hall in the other direction. “Hey, Ronald!” I yell. “You have a secret.”

  Ronald grabs the paper out of my hands. “Thanks!” he says as he takes off down the hall.

  “You know him?” Emma asks. She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. How does she get them like that? They’re like two perfect half moons over her eyes. “He’s cute.”

  I almost drop my backpack. Ronald Hughes, cute? Is she crazy? Cute makes me think of puppies, or the color pink. Ronald Hughes is definitely not cute. Disturbing, maybe. Weird, even. Maybe kind of crazy on a good day. But definitely not cute. Wait a minute. Is this one of those things you always see in movies? Where the guys who weren’t popular somehow grow up and become virtual girl magnets overnight? Also, why does this never happen to girls? How come I can’t grow up and become a virtual boy magnet? Taylor is a boy magnet, but she was always a boy magnet. This seems very unfair.