Boy Shopping (3 page)

Camille's nose wrinkled. “Franklin is probably crawling with disease. Definitely not Franklin.”

“You haven't gone out with Mark,” Jasmine pointed out, grinning evilly at Kiki in the mirror.

“Kiki's Mark? Are you kidding?”

“Yes, she's kidding.” Kiki punched Jasmine in the shoulder. She screeched as if Kiki had stabbed her.

“What's the holdup with Mark now?” Camille asked. That was a sign of how drunk she was—they had had a million conversations about Mark's inability to see Kiki as anything other than a bandmate and a friend.

Kiki, Jasmine, and Sasha all sighed.

“No, I know all about Judy the tour-bitch and how you can't get together on tour, and how he somehow failed to notice that you've turned into a total hottie over the years.” Camille rolled her eyes. “But what's stopping you from marching into the game room right now, dragging him away from the pool table, and telling him what he's missing? Why don't you just ask him out?”

“What do you mean?” Kiki said. “I ask him out all the time!”

“Not out for coffee at that greasy, all-night place you like,” Camille said. “
Out
out. Ask him to a show, no Franklin, no groupies, no us—ask him to take you to the movies! Anything! Just make sure he knows it'll be a date.”

“But then he'll say no.”

“No, he won't. He'll kick himself for being so stupid for the last three years.”

Kiki shook her head. “No way. I know him a lot better than you do. He has to feel like everything is his idea. It'll weird him out completely if I make the first move.” It was one of the very few things that annoyed her about Mark, along with his unwillingness to notice her as anything other than a best friend.

“Then you can go out with Cowboy Troy,” Jasmine pointed out.

“Huh?” Sasha asked.

Camille waved her soda can at Jasmine. “Jazz,
you
need to call Cowboy Troy. You've been talking about him for months. And Kiki, you need to either ask Mark out or get over it. He's getting in your way.”

“He's not stopping me from going out with other people. I went out with Jason Wrightman for most of last year.”

“You know you never really gave him a chance.”

Kiki couldn't argue with that. The lead singer of Beautiful Youth was cute, smart, and hilarious, and he understood the demands of a musician's schedule perfectly. But between his gigs and Kiki's, they barely managed to see each other, and when they did Kiki always wished that Mark liked her half as much as Jason did. Kiki even slept with Jason a few times, mostly because she hoped making love would make her fall in love, but it never happened. They never even broke up, not really—they just drifted apart, Kiki with the Wasted tour, and Jason heading to the European festival circuit. She missed talking to him on the phone, but that was all she missed.

“You can do it,” Jasmine told Kiki firmly. “You can ask Mark out. And if he says no, forget him. The Internet is full of Thomases.”

“There's only one Thomas,” Sasha corrected her. “But the Internet
is
full of boys. We'll find the right one for you.”

“But I don't want some random boy!” Kiki wailed. “I want Mark!”

“Then go and get him.”

Jasmine took the drink from Kiki's hand and replaced it with lipstick: Hearts Afire, Kiki's signature red. Jasmine always kept a tube in her purse for Kiki, since Kiki could never remember to bring a purse of her own. Kiki applied it carefully, fluffed her dreads, and took a deep breath.

“Okay, that's it. I'm going to find Mark, and when I do, I'm going to ask him out for real.”

“Go, Kiki, go!” her friends chanted.

Kiki set off down the hall, which seemed to be heading downhill. That was weird, because it was pretty level on the way to the bathroom. Drinking on an empty stomach was bad enough, but after a show she was always a little dehydrated, which made any drink seem twice as strong.

“Dutch courage,” she mumbled to herself, wondering what was with the Dutch. Dutch courage. Going Dutch. Double Dutch. What did it even mean? Mark's mom was Dutch.
She
liked Kiki—she gave her a pair of wooden shoes when she was eight. What was wrong with Mark?

Kiki careened into the game room. It was packed with people, mostly guys, and strangely quiet—a lot of Wentworth guys were serious about pool. Crowded as it was, Kiki knew immediately that Mark wasn't there. It was like a super power: Mark-sense. She would rather be able to fly.

“Seen Mark?” she asked Charles Anderson, who was standing closest to the door. When they were in the first grade, Charles had tried to cut off one of Kiki's pigtails. He told their teacher that he was trying to do her a favor—that maybe her hair would grow back “pretty.” Straight was what he meant. But now he was as awed by Kiki as everyone else. He turned purple before he managed to stutter out the news that Mark had gone home right after Camille beat him at Seven Shot.

“Great,” Kiki sighed, and turned back to the door.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” piped a voice somewhere behind her.

“No thanks.” Kiki headed for the first empty guest room she could find and crawled into bed. She would see Mark at noon the next day for a recording session. They were covering an old David Bowie song for a tribute album, but she couldn't ask him out in front of Franklin, Franklin's mother, their managers, the sound technicians, and everyone else at the studio. And that night, she would be locked in her bedroom, finishing a paper on
The Scarlet Letter
. She always saw Mark after homeroom, when she was headed to AP English and he was going to Calc.

“I'll talk to him on Monday,” she promised herself before falling asleep.

Temporary Insanity

K
iki dressed carefully on Monday morning. Wentworth didn't have uniforms, but it did have a dress code, and it banned almost all of her clothes. She chose skinny jeans long enough to hide her four-inch-high boot heels, and a black turtleneck made of a shiny, stretchy material that clung to her curves. There wasn't a bare inch of skin from neck to toe, once she added black lace gloves she had inherited from her grandmother, but it was a decidedly sexy outfit.

“You're pushing it, sweetheart,” her mother said, dropping her off at school. “What's Dr. Eckhart going to say about that top?”

“Nothing. I've got the dress code memorized,” Kiki promised. “Have fun in court!”

Her mother made a face that kept Kiki giggling until she got to homeroom. Her mother had been a judge since Kiki was twelve, one of the first black women to win a seat on the bench in Nashville. Kiki always worried about someone she knew being arraigned in her mother's courtroom, but it had never happened. When you were in the music business it was nice to have a mother who knew contract law like some mothers knew brownie recipes.

“Talked to Mark—” Sasha began before Mr. Hooper shushed them. Kiki shook her head and started riffling through her bag for a pen. Passing notes with Sasha was her daily activity during morning announcements. But after the first bell, they didn't hear Dr. Eckhart say, “Good morning, Lions. This is Monday, October 12th, and these are your morning announcements” as they all expected. Instead, a very familiar drum solo tore out of the PA system at high volume, followed by Franklin's voice howling, “Monday morning's for the weak/Bankers, teachers, other freaks/I'm gonna sleep until Friday/ When the bad kids come out to play.”

Kiki froze in shock as every face in the room turned to her. “Friday Night Special” was followed by screams from a crowd. That didn't surprise Kiki—they had just debuted “Friday Night Special” at the Exit/In that Saturday. When the recorded cheers died down, “Mr. Sprinkles” blared, then clips of “Glit-terbug,” “Sky High,” and Temporary Insanity's version of the jazz standard “How High the Moon.” Kiki sang Ella Fitzgerald's part on that one, with Franklin doing a very odd interpretation of Charlie Parker.

She expected “Demonique” to come up next—it came after “Sky High” on their newest set list—but instead there was silence. Before Sasha had time to ask Kiki what they were doing on the announcements, Dr. Eckhart was on the PA.

“Franklin Pierce, Mark Slaughter, and Katrina Kelvin, please come to the office immediately. Everyone else, please proceed to first period. Homeroom is dismissed.”

“I suppose you have some sort of explanation,” Dr. Eckhart said once Temporary Insanity had gathered in her office, lined up in three hard-backed, wooden chairs. Dr. Eckhart was one of the first women to graduate from Wentworth, and Kiki sometimes wondered if the woman's blood had turned Wentworth blue. She was a little too obsessed with school traditions and order and whether there were bumper stickers on the lockers, and her punishments were sometimes frighteningly creative. For her third dress code violation, Kiki had had to wear the Wentworth uniform from 1952 for a month—and Wentworth was not coed in 1952.

But Dr. Eckhart was also fair. She always gave you a chance to defend yourself before deciding on your punishment. Unfortunately, Kiki had no idea who had hijacked the PA system, and no idea how they had done it. And she was pretty sure that Mark and Franklin couldn't explain it either.

“You three are very quiet,” Dr. Eckhart observed. “Usually I can't persuade you to close your mouths.”

“Dr. Eckhart, it's not our fault,” Mark blurted. “We had nothing to do with it.” His knuckles had gone white, gripping the chair. Kiki wasn't surprised. He worked hard to keep his scholarship, and if he got kicked out during the fall of his junior year, especially over something as stupid as this prank, Kiki was afraid he might kill himself.

“I confess that I can't think of any reason why you might choose such a dubious method of self-promotion.”

“Um, right,” Franklin said, glancing at Kiki to make sure he had understood Dr. Eckhart. “I mean, we've got promoters and stuff. And everyone here has already heard us play.”

Dr. Eckhart stared at each of them silently for almost a minute. Kiki wondered if she and the boys would be Dr. Eckhart's slaves before school every morning for the next month, or something even worse. Finally, the principal spoke.

“You're quite correct, Franklin. So what do you imagine was the offender's motivation?”

“What?”

Mark rolled his eyes, forcing Kiki to stifle a laugh. She was a little giddy with relief. “She wants to know who did it, Franklin.”

“Oh! Just a groupie,” Franklin said, tossing back his hair and sliding lower in his chair. “I've got to get those girls in line.”

Dr. Eckhart raised a pair of brows so white they were almost invisible. “For every female student I've fined for Temporary Insanity bumper stickers, I have fined three of their male classmates. Kiki, do you have any idea which of your fans might have tampered with my public address system?”

“Not really.” Kiki shrugged and tried to look unconcerned, but her mind was racing, trying to decide which of her fans might be responsible. She thought Dr. Eckhart was probably right: this didn't seem like fangirl behavior. Girls tried to get Franklin's attention by giving him kudos on MySpace and dancing next to the stage at shows. Kiki couldn't imagine one of them deciding to impress Franklin by hacking the PA system. She also had a hard time believing that any of them were smart enough to pull it off.

Mark interrupted her thoughts by saying, “Franklin's right. It's more likely to be a girl. Kiki doesn't really have her own fans. Our guy fans are fans of the band, not Kiki specifically.”

“Excuse me?” Kiki said, not sounding half as mad as she felt. Or as hurt. “What would you know about that?”

“I talked to that PR guy, Mike, about fan demographics,” Mark explained mildly, as if he hadn't just insulted her. “He says that fans never key in on drummers. The guys who listen to the White Stripes aren't listening because they like Meg. Think about it—no one's ever into the drummer.”

Kiki stared at Mark, too stunned to say a word. That was what he really thought? No wonder he'd never asked her out.

“Maybe it's that Katie girl,” Franklin said thoughtfully, working the fingers of his left hand as if he was doing chord progressions. He did that on the rare occasions when he tried to use his brain. “Katie Fulsome. She seems smart.”

“You only think she's smart because she wears glasses,” Mark pointed out. He leaned forward in his seat. “I have no idea who it could be,” he told Dr. Eckhart.

“Then I suppose you should go to class,” Dr. Eckhart said slowly. “However, if you should learn any facts related to this morning's incident, I would like to hear about it.”

“Of course!” Kiki promised. Mark nodded and Franklin added, “Sure thing.” Then they left the office as fast as they could without actually running.

“You don't think Katie's smart?” Franklin asked once they were in the hallway outside the office.

“No!” Kiki and Mark both growled.

“Her bra size changes at every single show!” Mark said. “What's your problem?” Franklin demanded.

“My problem is that one of your stupid fans got us in trouble with Dr. Eckhart. I need her to write recommendations,” Mark said, biting off each of his words.

“Kiki, are you worried about recommendations too?” Franklin asked in a fake, sugary voice.

“Nope.” Her father was chief of neurosurgery at Vanderbilt University, which meant she'd have a full ride there if she got in. And her parents' strict rule that getting more than one B in any six week period would mean having to quit the band, had kept her on the principal's honor list since freshman year. Getting into college was one thing she didn't have to worry about—balancing college with touring, however, was a whole other story. “That's not the problem.”

“So what's your damage?” Franklin sneered. “Are you jealous ?”

“Of your deranged fans?” Kiki retorted. “I don't think so! But I am amazed that you could be stupid enough to think that one of your little idiots did this!”

Franklin smirked, and did his patented hair toss again. “When was the last time some guy threw his boxers on stage for you?”

“Fanboys don't do that to get attention, dumb-ass! They send CDs to my parents' house and flowers and cow hearts on Valentine's Day! Did you hear the sound quality on that recording? That was serious equipment—professional grade. Any of your fans with that kind of money would spend it on hooker clothes, not micro-recorders!”

“Look who's talking!” Mark shouted before Franklin could think up an answer. “Maybe if you didn't dress like that, maybe you wouldn't have to worry about crazy stalkers!”

Kiki was so stunned she couldn't answer. She could barely breathe. Her clothes were definitely sexy, but compared to most girls in the industry, she looked like a nun. Mark's face was almost as red as Kiki's lipstick, and he was panting as if he had just run a mile, but he kept yelling anyway. “What do you mean, cow hearts on Valentine's Day? Who's sending you that crap?”

“What do you care?” she screamed back. “You think anyone who plays the drums is a loser!”

“Back into the office, please,” a stern voice behind them ordered. Kiki shut her eyes for a moment. They should definitely have gotten farther away from Dr. Eckhart's office before they started lobbing insults.

They followed Dr. Eckhart meekly. Kiki couldn't stop trembling, even though Dr. Eckhart sat in complete silence for five full minutes, waiting for someone to say something.

Once again, it was Mark who broke the silence. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “That was my fault.”

“Indeed? I was sure I heard more than one voice shouting.”

“I'm sorry, too,” Kiki immediately echoed. And she was. She could not remember the last time she was so sorry.

Dr. Eckhart tapped her fingertips together lightly. “You know, I've said from the beginning that you were too young for the responsibilities a band entails. Your grades haven't fallen, so I haven't complained too much, but shouting matches in the middle of first period are difficult to condone.”

“It's not really our fault,” Franklin insisted. “It's all because of the announcement thing.” He shrank a little into the chair, then asked, “Are you going to suspend us?”

“The zero-tolerance policy on fighting does not apply to verbal violence, so the answer is no. But I may have to speak to your parents tonight. You are far too old for this sort of nonsense.”

Franklin perked up, but Kiki and Mark slumped in despair. They didn't have a lot of freedom, and they were both certain that a little more would soon be taken away. Their only hope was that something even worse would happen over the course of the day, distracting Dr. Eckhart before she began her daily round of phone calls.

“Go to class,” Dr. Eckhart ordered, and they fled.

“Kiki—” Mark began as soon as they left the office.

“Don't talk to me,” she said. She wouldn't even turn to face him as she fast-walked down the corridor. “I don't want to hear it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But after school—”

“I'll get a ride with someone else,” she snapped.

“Oh. Well—”

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Each word was punctuated with the sharp click of high heels on tile.

When lunchtime rolled around, Sasha, Jasmine, and Camille were waiting for Kiki at her locker, concerned expressions on their faces. No one said a word as Kiki spun the combination on her lock.

“You heard?” Kiki asked, pulling a vintage Pink Floyd lunch box full of leftovers out of her locker.

“I think everyone heard,” Jasmine said, patting Kiki awkwardly on her shoulder. Jasmine was never as comfortable trying to make someone feel good as she was making people feel bad. “So I guess you're not going to practice tonight, huh?”

Kiki didn't say anything, just felt her cheeks warm. She might not have screamed her last words to Mark, but she hadn't whispered them either. She had no doubt that the whole school knew about their fight by now.

“We're going to get our nails done after school,” Sasha interjected, giving Jasmine a dark look. “Want to come with us?”

“Nope.” Kiki fanned her fingers for the girls, displaying her super-short nails. They had to be, otherwise she broke them hefting her drum kit in and out of the van. Of course Sasha knew this—she'd only invited Kiki to be kind.