Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better Page 5

  I slide the combination dial of Mel’s locker to the left. Five . . . fifteen, twenty-one. Mel and I have each other’s locker combinations just for situations like this. Wow, Mel really should clean this place once in a while. Her locker is pretty much a mess. Papers all over the place, which is really unlike her. Her bedroom is immaculate, you should see her bookshelves and her closet. Everything all facing the same way, color coded and alphabetized.

  I move some papers out of the way so that I can put the notebook in, and as I do, some stuff falls onto the floor. Oopsies. I bend down to pick the papers up, and realize I’ve accidentally left a footprint on one of them. Hope it’s not important. I look at the paper, “Application For . . .” is all I see before someone snaps it out of my hand.

  “What are you doing?” Mel asks, slamming her locker door shut in front of me. She does it so fast that I almost lose my hand.

  “I was just putting our notebook in your locker. You could have broken my fingers just now, you know?” What is the deal with people being so secretive all of a sudden? First my dad and now Mel.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s just . . .” She shoves the paper she took from me into her bag.

  “It’s just what?”

  “I dunno, I saw you looking at something, and I figured you might have been messing up something important.” I look at her, and she slides her eyes down to the floor. Something’s definitely going on here.

  “Something’s definitely going on here,” I say.

  “No, there isn’t,” she says.

  “Yes, there is,” I say.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Then show me that paper!” I hold my hand out, waiting for her to hand it over.

  “No!” she almost screams. “I mean, I can’t. It’s private.”

  “It’s private?” I ask her incredulously. “Since when do we keep secrets?” Mel raises her eyebrows at me. Okay. So maybe I kind of sort of didn’t tell Mel that my parents were having problems and were thinking about maybe getting divorced. And maybe Mel kind of sort of found out when her mom ran into my grandma at the store. But that was ages ago. Three weeks, at least.

  “Okay,” I say. “Point taken. But we’ve turned over a new leaf! I don’t have any secrets from you right now. You know everything that’s going on with me, and I want to know everything that’s going on with you. We’re BFF.” Mel doesn’t look convinced, so I rush on. “For example,” I say. “Last night at mock trial I made up a fake boyfriend, and now Luke wants to meet him.” I give her an encouraging smile. “Now you go.”

  “You what?!” Mel shrieks.

  “Unh-uh,” I say, wagging my finger at her. “Not until you tell me yours.”

  Mel takes a deep breath, “Devon, I—”

  At that moment, a boy with blonde hair who’s wearing a blue and white striped polo shirt passes by us in the hall. As he does, he gently tugs on Mel’s hair. Then he turns around and winks at her. Mel blushes as red as a tomato.

  “Who,” I say, “was that?”

  “Oh, that’s Dylan,” she says. She suddenly becomes very busy opening up her locker, turning the combination. But she’s all flustered, and her hands slide past the numbers she needs.

  “And who,” I say, “is Dylan?” I’ve never heard of this Dylan, much less know why he’d be pulling Mel’s hair. It seems very . . . flirty. Is this Mel’s secret?

  “He’s just this guy who’s in radio,” she says. “We ended up talking for a little bit last night about broadcasting and stuff.”

  “Ooooh,” I say, leaning against Mel’s locker. “You guys were taaalking.”

  “Come on, Devon,” she says, but her voice sounds like she’s trying too hard to seem nonchalant. “He’s an eighth grader.”

  “Ooooh,” I say, “An eighth graaader.”

  Mel giggles and fake hits my shoulder. “Devon, come on, be serious.”

  “I am being serious. I mean, this sounds very serious.” I look at her, and see her still blushing. “I thought you liked Brent Madison?”

  Mel gives me a look, one of those “like that was ever going to happen” looks. I nod, but don’t say anything. Besides him asking about her once when I ran into him at the mall, Mel hasn’t had much success with Brent.

  “So tell me about this Dylan,” I say. I’m excited. New crush! Yay!

  “Wellll.” Mel finally has her locker open, and is collecting her books for her first class. “I don’t really know that much, except like I said, he’s in eighth grade. And very nice.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t mention one.” She looks nervous.

  “Hmm. That could mean either he doesn’t have one, or he just didn’t want to mention her, which means he’s a jerk.” Mel’s face falls at little at the thought of Dylan being a jerk. “But,” I hurry on, “he just did some very public flirting with you, and why would he do that if he has a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t think he was flirting with me,” Mel says, slamming her locker door shut. We fall into step together, heading down the hall, me toward English and her toward social studies.

  “Um, he pulled your hair,” I say. “That’s most definitely flirting.”

  “It is?” We’re at the door of my English class now, and we stop to talk for a second until the bell rings.

  “Yes,” I say. “It is. Now he’s an eighth grader, so of course that means—”

  “Who’s an eighth grader?” Bailey Barelli asks, popping her head out of the classroom.

  Great. Just how I want to start my morning! With Bailey Barelli asking me all sorts of annoying questions.

  “No one,” Mel says quickly, shooting me a look that lets me know she doesn’t want anyone else knowing, even though it’s totally unnecessary. Like I would ever tell Bailey Barelli anything about anyone.

  “Yeah, no one,” I say. I try to say it sort of short, so that Bailey knows I don’t want to talk to her anymore. She’s wearing this really fab red-and-white-striped top, and she has red clips in her hair holding back a little braid that goes to the side. It meets her curls and then falls all down her back. She looks like maybe she spent an hour getting ready this morning. I look down at my own outfit, a really cute white cotton dress with a pink butterfly on the bottom, over black leggings. Hmm.

  “Ohhhh,” Bailey says, in a very knowing tone. She smiles at me and Mel, like we’re all friends. I guess she doesn’t know she’s the bane of my existence.

  “What?” Mel asks.

  “Yeah, what?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her suspiciously.

  “You must be talking about Greg, the guy you dated this summer. He’s the one who’s in eighth grade, right?”

  “Who?” Mel asks. “I didn’t date any guy named Greg this summer.” I quickly step on her foot. “Ow!” she yells, “What’d you do that for?”

  “Uh, sorry,” I say. “Accident.” And I do honestly feel bad. Mel’s wearing ballet flats, and I’m wearing chunky black shoes with a little bit of a heel. I must have really hurt her foot.

  “Oh, how cute,” Bailey says, but she doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s cute. “You didn’t even tell Mel about Greg! Is that because he’s an eighth grader?”

  “Who’s an eighth grader?” Luke says, coming up to us in the hall. Great.

  “Greg is,” Bailey says. She shrugs her shoulders. “Turns out Devi was dating an eighth grader over the summer, which is why no one really knew about it, even Mel. Is it because your parents wouldn’t let you date older guys?”

  Um, my parents won’t let me date any guys. But I obviously can’t say that. Because, you know, I’m dating Luke. And he’s standing right there. “Um, not exactly,” I say.

  “You didn’t tell me he was an eighth grader,” Luke says.

  “Well,” Mel says. “It wasn’t exactly that big of a deal, I mean, people date eighth graders all the time.” I throw her a grateful smile, but Luke ignores her.

  “A
n eighth grader!” he says again, sounding a little dazed.

  “Luke, chill out,” Bailey says. She reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “I mean, Devon said that we all could meet him, isn’t that right, Devon?”

  “No,” I say, “I never said that.”

  Bailey blinks her eyes innocently. “I thought you mentioned something about us all getting together.” “Us all”? Is Bailey Barelli crazy? How is it that she thinks there’s an “us all”? It sounds suspiciously like she thinks there’s going to be some sort of double date, her and Luke, and me and this Greg person.

  “Well,” I say slowly. “I’m not sure how that would work exactly, since, you know, he lives so far away.”

  Bailey waves her hand like this is nothing. “Not a big deal,” she says. “I once dated a guy who lived in a whole other state. We met at summer camp. Besides, my mom is always around and she loves to drive and pick people up.”

  “Well, great,” I say. “Maybe sometime we can all meet up.” A summer camp boyfriend? How many ex-boyfriends has Barelli had? I can hardly keep up with my one. Of course, mine is fake, and hers are probably real. But still.

  “Actually, I’m having a party,” Bailey says, smiling all innocently up from under her long lashes. She definitely has mascara on. “It’s my birthday.”

  “That’s right,” Luke says, smiling.

  What? Why? How is it he can remember his ex-girlfriend’s birthday, and not remember that there is a very big semiformal coming up to which I am currently dateless?

  “Anyway, you should all come,” Bailey says. “It’s on Saturday.” She’s having a boy/girl party? Great. I’ve never been to a boy/girl party. But of course I can’t tell her that. She’s probably been having tons of boy/girl parties since she was five. Not to mention all the boy/ girl parties she’s probably been to. And I know Luke’s been to boy/girl parties, since he’s always been A-list, and they have tons of those things.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll come.” No way I’m letting Luke go by himself to Bailey Barelli’s birthday party. Hmm. I wonder if he’ll get her a present. Do I have to get her a present? Probably, otherwise she’d know that I didn’t get her one just because I don’t like her. I wonder if Luke and I can get her a joint present. Something kind of generic, like a scented candle or a journal. Perfectly nice, but not that personal. And I’ll sign the card, “Best, Devon and Luke.” Definitely not ‘love.’

  “Great!” Bailey says. “And make sure you bring Greg.”

  “I’ll ask him,” I say. “But I’m not sure he can make it.”

  Kim Cavalli comes up to us at that moment, which makes no sense, because I know for a fact that her first class is math, which is on the complete other side of the school, and the bell is about to ring in one second. I guess she doesn’t care about being late. She’s wearing super big hoop earrings that almost touch her neck, and her hair is in a ponytail.

  “Ohmigod,” she says. “What’s going on out here?” But she smiles when she says it, like she can’t imagine anything could possibly be going on, since she’s not involved.

  “I was just inviting everyone to my party,” Bailey says. “Devon’s going to bring Greg.”

  “Well,” I say. “I said I’d ask him if he wants to go.”

  “It seems like maybe you don’t want to bring him,” Luke says. He looks slightly upset.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say. starting to feel a little sick to my stomach. Why isn’t the bell ringing? Seriously, every time you want or need the bell to ring, it never does. “I just can’t promise that he’s going to come.”

  “He might be sick.” Mel, who up until this point has been pretty quiet, offers up this gem.

  “Sick?” Kim laughs. Her earrings sparkle, catching the light as she moves. “Why, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with him,” Mel says. “He just sometimes . . .” She trails off.

  “Gets sick,” I finish for her, lamely. “He has a very compromised immune system.”

  “Eww,” Bailey says. “That sounds gross.” She wrinkles her tiny little nose and pushes her hair out of her face. Ohmigod. Is Barelli wearing a nose ring? She is! A little nose jewel right on the side of her nose. It’s one of those stick-on ones, obviously, since she didn’t have it yesterday.

  “It’s not gross,” I say, not wanting Luke to think that the guy I dated before him was gross. “I had to take care of him a lot.”

  “Because of his compromised immune system?” Kim looks at me skeptically. “Well, hopefully he can make it on Saturday. I mean, after that whole thing with you making up a fake relationship with Jared, it would be nice if you could prove you were trustworthy.”

  I’m about to ask her to whom, exactly, I have to prove I’m trustworthy. Her? Barelli? The only people in this group I owe anything to are Luke and Mel. And Mel already knows the truth. And Luke, well . . . I sigh.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “He’ll be there.”

  chapter five

  “Are you crazy?” Lexi asks me. We’re in Callie’s Closet, a consignment store a few blocks from my school that always has name brand stuff super cheap. We walked here after the last bell rang, which of course, constituted me using Lexi’s cell again. Totally ridiculous. “Why would you tell her Greg is going to come?”

  “I don’t know,” I moan, flipping my way through a rack of skinny jeans. “It was Kim! She brought up the whole lying-about-Jared thing, and before I knew it, it just happened.” I lower my voice to a horrified whisper. “I cracked under the peer pressure.”

  “Ugh, Kim,” Lexi says, shaking her head. “That girl is lethal.” She comes over to the rack I’m at and holds up a turquoise sweater. “Cute or ugly?”

  “Cute,” I tell her. I hold up a pair of jeans and eye the price tag. Hmm. “Is it worth paying this much for something that’s probably just a fad?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you,” Lexi says. “Skinny jeans are not a fad.”

  “Anything that’s only going to last a season or two is definitely a fad.” I add them to the pile of stuff in my arms anyway.

  “Ooh,” Lexi says, looking at a Versace dress that’s hanging on the wall. “That is absolutely fabulous.” She rushes over and checks the price tag. “You should try it on.” Lexi likes shopping here because she can find staples, like sweaters and jeans, and maybe some shoes. But Lexi can afford to buy the current season’s name brand stuff, so she doesn’t really need to shop here.

  “Luke hasn’t even asked me to the dance yet,” I say. “So I don’t have to worry about finding a dress.” And even if I did have to worry about it, I couldn’t afford that dress. Even at consignment shop prices. I sigh and put the pile of stuff I’m holding down on a rack. I probably shouldn’t be buying anything. I need to save my allowance for a dress just in case.

  “He’s totally going to ask you!” Lexi snaps her gum. “Ooh, vintage!” She holds up a pair of Prada shoes that can’t be more than two seasons old. She puts one on her foot and then frowns. “Hmm, do these make me look like I have cankles?”

  “Lexi!” I say. “Please focus!” Lexi does not have cankles. “Some of us have real problems, like a fake ex-boyfriend, ever heard of it?”

  “Well, you already got out of one fake ex-boyfriend mess, how much worse can another one be?”

  “You did not just ask me that,” I say. I pick up a bracelet off of a jewelry tray and hold it up to my wrist.

  “Devon,” Lexi says. “I don’t want to hear this negative attitude that is now permeating the store.”

  “Did you just say ‘permeating’?”

  “Totally,” Lexi says. “It’s one of our English vocab words.” She smiles. Lexi has new braces. Light blue. Very cute. She also has a real boyfriend that asked her to the dance. I try not to feel jealous.

  “This is not the end of the world.” It sure feels like it. I follow Lexi obediently to the register. “Aren’t you getting anything?” she asks.

  “No
t today. I don’t have any money, and the money I do have, I’m saving for the dress just in case Luke does ask me.” I’m enjoying feeling very sorry for myself as Lexi checks out. She spends over four hundred dollars on jeans, shoes, and accessories, all on a prepaid credit card that her mom gave her. My mom is supposed to be picking us up, so we head outside to wait.

  A few raindrops are falling from the sky, and there’s no sign of my mom, so Lexi and I decide to head into the coffee shop next door. We order cappuccinos with extra vanilla shots and sit down in some squashy chairs by the window.

  “Hmm,” Lexi says, once we’re settled in. “I have a fab idea! Let’s make a list!”

  “A list of what?” I ask warily. Last time Lexi wanted to make a list, we ended up listing all the clothes she owned, plus possible outfit combinations. So not the way I want to spend my afternoon.

  “Ways to get out of the whole Greg situation!” She reaches into her bag, rummages around, and pulls out a purple notebook with a big swirly “A” embossed in gold on the bottom, for her full name: Alexis.

  I take a sip of my cappuccino, letting the warmth of the foam slide down my throat. I check my watch. My mom is twenty minutes late now, but I don’t even care. Once we get into my mom’s car, there’s no way we’d be able to talk about this.

  “Now,” Lexi says, tapping her pen against the paper and looking thoughtful. “We need to come up with options.”

  “Options,” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Of things we can do to fix this whole problem.”

  “Um, move far away and/or transfer to boarding school?” I try.

  Lexi nods seriously and writes “Move away and/or go to boarding school” on her pad.